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A LITTLE 



BOOK OF TRIBUNE VERSE 



A NUMBER OF HITHERTO UNCOLLECTED 
POEMS, GRAVE AND GAY 



BY 

Eugene Field 



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collected and edited by 
Joseph G. Brown 



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DENVER, COLO. 

TANDY, WHEELER & CO. 

PUBLISHERS 

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THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two COHIES Rece(ved 

'UL. 2 1901 

Cqpyhight entry 

CLASS ^XXe. N<». 

COPY 8. 



Op This Large Paper Edition, only Seven Hundred and Fiftt 
Copies Have Been Issued, op Whioh This is 



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COPYRiaHT, 1901 
BY 

Tandy, Wheeler & Co, 



Ifntrobuction. 



Ilntrobuction^ 



It is the purpose of this volume to present to 
the admirers of Eugene Field a collection of poems 
from a store wherein many of his richest gems of 
wit, humor and pathos have been buried for twenty 
years and forgotten, save by a few of those who 
were his intimate associates during his career in 
Denver. 

These poems appeared at intervals from Au- 
gust, 1 88 1, to August, 1883, in the columns of The 
Denver Tribune, of which paper Field was then 
associate editor. Their circulation in that journal 
was restricted and provincial and, being published 
anonymously, the knowledge of their authorship 
was confined to the few readers who were familiar 
with the quaint style and inimitable humor of the 
author. A number of these verses were copied into 
other journals, and so attained a wider circula- 
tion. But, whether honored by his contemporaries 



or not, their creation was but ephemeral, for they 
have never before been collected and printed in ac- 
cessible and enduring form. 

Considering the anonymity of these poems it is 
interesting to read in "The Love Affairs of a Biblio- 
maniac" : "When a song is printed it is printed in 
small type, and the name of him who wrote it is 
appended thereunto in big type. If the song be 
meritorious it goes to the corners of the earth 
through the medium of the art preservative of arts, 
but the longer and the farther it travels the bigger 
does the type of the song become and the smaller 
becomes the type wherein the author's name is set. 

"Then, finally, some inconsiderate hand, weild- 
ing the pen or shears, blots out or snips off the poet's 
name, and henceforth the song is anonymous. A 
great iconoclast — a royal old iconoclast — is Time: 
but he hath no terrors for those precious things 
which are embalmed in words, and the only fellow 
that shall surely escape him till the crack of doom 
is he whom men know by the name of Anonymous !" 

Surely Field was an exception to his own state- 
ments, for while his poems are being printed in ever 
increasing sizes of type, his name grows in propor- 
tion, a fact that proves that his admirers love the 
poet as much as the poetry. 

These poems cover the same wide range as his 
after life's work and embrace a number of subjects 
which subsequently became the sources of his 
greater fame. Four of them — "Christmas Treas- 
urers," "Jim's Kids," "Pike's Peak Philosophic 
Burro" and "The Jaffa and Jerusalem R. R." — 
were revised by Field himself and, having been 



published in his previous books, have helped to make 
him famous. But they have never before been re- 
published in the form in which they first came from 
their author's brain. It is believed that students 
and lovers of Field will find sufficient interest in 
comparing the different versions to need no excuse 
for the slight repetition. 

The poems are here arranged more or less ac- 
cording to their subject matter and the dates given 
are the dates of The Denver Tribune, in which they 
appeared. Field conducted a department on the 
editorial page of the paper, which was known among 
his associates as "The Nonpariel Column" from the 
fact that it was printed from nonpariel type. At 
first this column bore no heading, but later it was 
headed "Odd Gossip." Most of his poems appeared 
in this column, though some of them were found in 
other departments of the paper. It is believed that 
this collection contains all the verses contributed by 
him to the Tribune with the possible exception of 
a few from the authenticity of which it was found 
impossible to remove all doubt, a few of purely per- 
sonal interest and one or two which have appeared 
in other books. In publishing these verses in book 
form it has been thought best to correct in the text 
a few errors and transpositions which were evidently 
due to the printer. 

A number of the poems appeared in the paper 
over the signatures of well known Denver men, a 
form of humor of which Field was very fond and 
which he afterwards practiced in Chicago. To one 
who was familiar with the personality of these men 
the poems have a peculiar zest, but even deprived 



of this they can still well afford to stand upon their 
own merits. Only one of them — "Christmas Treas- 
ures" — appeared over his own name. 

During the time Field was in Denver he was 
associated with O. H. Rothacker and F. J. V. Skiff, 
forming a trio which was well known for its jour- 
nalistic ability and love of healthy fun. These men 
attracted within their circle the people of culture 
and those who controlled the commercial and politi- 
cal destinies of Colorado. In a more restricted 
sense they found their local associates among the 
common masses of the city people. Among the 
lowly, as well as those of proud estate. Field num- 
bered his hosts of friends. The latter had his sym- 
pathies and his charities. From the children and 
from the poor and distressed he drew the lessons 
and the scenes that gave pathos to his verse. 
Against the men of wealth and station he directed 
the keen edged shafts of his humor and sarcastic 
wit. A large part of his literary work in Denver 
was inspired by his association with these classes 
and the peculiar social conditions then existing. It 
is equally true that under influences differing from 
those which inspired his earlier efforts, his work in 
Denver, his writings in prose, no less than those in 
verse, laid the solid foundation and formed the most 
essential part in building the great reputation which 
followed him through the remainder of his life. 

One of the best known features of his early 
work was the "Tribune Primer," which, in its serial 
publication, drew more than casual attention. This 
was his first publication in book or pamphlet form. 
The small edition, being quickly exhausted, is now 



the rarest American first edition. The poems, 
which are here presented, are related to the Primer 
articles, for their appearance in the columns of the 
Tribune from October, 1881, to the Spring of 1882, 
was coincident, and much that is of a personal nat- 
ure or having reference to occurrences or affairs 
had the same source of inspiration. 

The personal career and work of Eugene Field, 
the journalist, add many unknown qualities to the 
character of the man. He was a man of hard work 
and close application, capable of stupendous labor 
and equal to the complicated details of all depart- 
ments of a daily newspaper. In the midst of such 
serious practical duties, so vexatious and irksome to 
the average newspaper man, he was at all times 
evenly balanced, good-natured, patient, kind, yet al- 
ways alert for occasion with sharpened wit and 
brimming with humor. His special column in the 
paper was almost always in prose. His poems were 
occasional. He was not a poetic machine, nor did 
he think at all times in verse or rhyme, though he 
did not always wait for moods or invoke the muses 
to inspire his lyric themes. Whether at his desk, 
in contact with the crowd upon the street or in con- 
vivial intercourse with his intimate friends, there 
was little in his manner or speech to denote either 
the man of levity or one absorbed in serious thought. 
The sparkling wit which illumined his work was the 
spontaneous overflowing of a vigorous mind and a 
merry heart. A lover of fun, it was his greatest 
delight to make fun for others, though often at their 
own expense. If he amused the people of his com- 
munity he was content. To please the children was 
his greatest delight. He knew the value of money 



only in its immediate uses and he was equally grati- 
* fied if his last dollar ministered to his own desires 

or the needs of others. 

His talent was the curious blending of the liter- 
ary and journalistic instinct, but the former was 
manifestly in the ascendant. Many of his poems, 
especially those written under the influence of his 
newspaper environments in Denver, reflect the genu- 
ine nature of the man as he appeared in his every- 
day communion with the people. Professionally, 
his peculiar characteristic was his extraordinary 
versatility. Familiar with every phase of news- 
paper work in his time, the enormous quantity of 
copy that he would upon occasion furnish the 
printer, did not affect its quality to disadvantage. 

Joseph G. Brown. 
Denver, March 28th, igoi. 



10 



Contents. 



Content0» 



POEMS OF CHILDHOOD. 

JoHNNY^s Team 21 

The Truant 23 

We Runned Away 24 

The Foundling 25 

Ba-by Fay Fer-ny 26 

Baby-Land 28 

A Trip to Toyland 29 

Wee Babies 31 

Baby Bobby 32 

Peek-a-Boo 33 

Baby Brother 34 

A Funny Little Boy 35 

Last Yearns Doll 36 

Dolls at School 37 

A Word to Rover 38 

The Old Cow 39 

How the Sheep Found Bo-Peep 40 

Clover-Top and Thistle-Down 41 

Outside My Window 42 

The Wren's Nest 43 



13 



Aunt Eleanor^s Diamonds 45 

The Twins 46 

Out Doqr and In 47 

Mary and Martha 48 

Two Little Bears 49 

Hush-a-By Baby 50 

Baby and 1 51 

Colic 53 

A Hushaby Song 54 

A IvUllaby 56 

Baby's Cold 57 

Little Gold Head 58 

Taking Care of Kitty 59 

The Awful Fate of Little Jim 60 

Ellen May 62 

Apple Blossoms 64 

The Swimming Boy 65 

The Awful Bugaboo 66 

The Mountain Lion 6y 

The Good Boy and the Bad 68 

A Christmas Wish 69 

My Lady 71 

Mamma's Valentine 73 

Little Flo 74 

The Prayer 76 

Jim's Kids , "jy 

The Christmas Treasures 80 

POEMS OF THE PEOPLE. 

The Advertiser 85 

Be Not Forgetful 87 

The Angel's Visit 88 



14 



The Twin Followers 89 

Gems for the Printer 90 

Discontent 92 

The Poet's Theme 93 

Paradise Regained 95 

The Pious Banker 96 

The Revival 97 

Living and Dying . . f 99 

Electing Fate loi 

Romance of the Cucumber 103 

Her Essay 104 

Departed Friends 105 

The Compliment 106 

The Cruel Father 107 

The Piazza Tragedy 108 

The Front Gate no 

The Recreant 112 

Love's Request 113 

The Dimple 114 

A Siren Sold 116 

As TO Eyes 118 

The April Fool 119 

The Two Meetings 121 

Pleasures of Memory 123 

Sympathy 124 

So Lonely 125 

A Golden Hair 126 

Only a Woman's Hair 127 

The Fiddler 128 

To the May Fly of the Angler 129 

To Mrs. Lydia E. Pinkham 130 

The Fisherman 131 

Rapture 133 



15 



Love 134 

Paradise 135 

Memories 136 

True Love 137 

St. Valentine's Day 138 

A Valentine 1 39 

The Valentine 140 

A New Year Idyl 141 

January ist, 1883 143 

New Year's Resolutions 145 

Easter 146 

An Easter Sermon 147 

Spring 149 

May 150 

Thanksgiving, 1881 151 

The Approach of Thanksgiving 152 

A Glorious Fourth 153 

O Tempora; a Fourth of July Reflection. 155 

The Fifth of July 157 

The Warrior 158 

The Survivor 1 59 

The Militiaman 161 

The Kansas Veteran 162 

WESTERN VERSE. 

Formerly of Kansas 167 

The Pioneer 169 

Atmospheric Deception 171 

A Colorado Sand Storm 172 

The Drouth 174 

Winter in Colorado 176 

December, 1881 177 

16 



To AN Undershirt 178 

A Wild West Protest 1 79 

Utah 180 

WuN Lung and Gin Sling 182 

The Colorado Springs Belle 184 

A Kansas City Echo 186 

Cupid at Manitou 188 

The Brown Tragedy 189 

The Cactus 190 

The Two Sleepers 192 

Death of the Cow-Boy 193 

Pike's Peak Philosophic Burro 195 

The Mustang 196 

To Emma Abbott 198 

Emma Abbott's Baby 200 

Tabor and Abbott 201 

Emma Abbott's Kiss 202 

The Smile and the Bird 203 

Emma Abbott 204 

Joseph Wilson 205 

Return of the Editors 206 

A Mexican Ballad 208 

A Spanish Fandango 210 

The Denver Mariner 212 

The Denver Life Boat 213 

Morning 216 

Maud Muller 217 

PARODIES, ETC. 

The Coventry Legend 221 

Really Too Utterly-Quite 223 

We Are Seven 224 



17 



In Re Spring 225 

I Cannot Sing the Old Songs 226 

The Same Dear Hand 227 

Winter Joys 228 

Lost Chords 229 

Arabi Bey 231 

Ode to the Passions 233 

Ode to Maecenas 235 

The Fate of Tomato Kahn 237 

The Jaffa and Jerusalem R. R 239 

The Jaffa and Jerusalem R. R. Troubles . . 241 

A Pastoral 243 

Political Rhymes 246 

Random Verse 248 

The Punster Goes Buggy Riding • -251 

An Orthographical Fancy 252 

A Nautical Lover 253 

Va. and Geo 254 

The Poet Lovers 255 



18 



poems of Cbflbboob. 



Ipoeme of (tbil£)boob* 



JOHNNY'S TEAM. 

I think of all the galloping, 
The trotting, fast and hard, 

That I have seen in town or park, 
On track or boulevard, 

No horses ever pawed the air. 
Or plunged about and ran. 

Taking the bit between their teeth, 
As those of Johnny's can. 

What color are they? sorrel? roan? 

Chestnut, or dapple grey? 
Excuse me, but 'tis difficult 

To know just what to say. 

I'm not enough a horseman to 
Have learned their phrases yet; 

But one, I think, is yellow blonde, 
The other a brunette. 



21 



Where is their stable ? do they have 

A manger and a stall? 
One has his room with Johnny, one 

Rooms just across the hall. 

They're not such very patient steeds, 

For both are apt to cry; 
I heard them, too, today at lunch, 

Quarrel about their pie. 

But still, they're very spirited, 
To neigh and prance and run. 

And make for Johnny, when he drives. 
Plenty of work and fun. 

October i6th, 1881. 



22 



THE TRUANT. 

It was a bright and genial day, 

When, tempted by the open gate 

And by a little truant mate. 
Our Baby Willie ran away; 
And prompted by each varying fear. 

Impelled by agonized alarm 

That he, perchance, might come to harm, 
We hunted for him far and near. 

Yet all in vain his baby name 

We called and called with no reply. 
Till with the sunset in the sky. 

Back to his home the baby came. 

Poor, tired child, how glad he crept 
Into his mother's arms and said, 
"I'm glad I'm home, le's do to bed!" 

And oh, how peacefully he slept. 

"Glad I am home!" It is the cry 
That many a weary wanderer gives, 
When tired of the life he lives 

He turns him to the wall to die. 

And as I to my joyous breast 

Took back my truant child that day. 
So will the arms that live for aye 

Receive each truant soul to rest. 

(Attributed to) Major Bowels. 

December 8th, 1881. 

23 



WE RUNNED AWAY. 

Two little rascally darlings they stood, 
Hand clasped in hand and eyes full of glee, 

Stock still in the midst of the crowded street. 
Naughty as ever children could be. 

Horses to right of them, horses to left. 
Men hurrying breathless to and fro. 

Nobody stopping to wonder at them. 
Nobody there with a right to know. 

Oh, what a chance for a full truant joy! 

Earth holds no other equal delight. 
Hark! it is over, a shriek fills the air, 

A woman's face flashes, pallid white. 

"O Babies! whose are you? How came you here?'* 
The busy street halts aghast at bay; 

Serene smile the infants, as heavenly clear 

They both speak together: "We runned away!" 

The crowd and the bustle swayed on again. 
The babies are safe and had lost their fun ; 

And we, who saw, felt a secret pain. 

Half envy, of what the babies had done. 

And said in our hearts, alack ! if we tell 

The truth, and the whole truth, we must say, 

We never get now so good a time 

As we used to have when "we runned away." 

December Bjih, 1882. 

24 



THE FOUNDLING. 

A little child upon the ground, 

Chilled by the storm and crying sore, 
With humble raiment covered o'er. 

One blustering winter's morn was found. 

None knew from whence or how he came, 
That little stranger all forlorn, 
Deserted on that cruel morn, 

None knew the little foundling's name. 

Kind people heard the piteous cry, 

Perhaps 'twas God that ope'd their ears. 
They dried the little suff'rers tears. 

And wrapped his limbs in garments dry. 

Withal he dies, and now forgot. 

He sleeps within the churchyard green. 
No name, no sign has e'er been seen 

Upon the stone that marks the spot. 

But wild flowers nestled all around, 
The birds sing sweetly overhead. 
The little children love to spread 

Their tributes o'er the tiny mound. 

If there be aught of heavenly love, 
O what a mockery is fame, 
A little soul without a name 

May find a biding place above. 

February 20th, 1882. 

25 



BA-BY FAY FER-NY. 

What is this with blue 
Lit-tle shoes, so new, 
Cun-ning lit-tle feet. 
Trot-ting down the street, 
What will Ma-ma say? 
Baby 's run a- way, 

Ba-by Fay Fer-ny. 

Calls a boy, "Hal-lo! 
See here, lit-tle pop-pet show. 
Come with me!" "No, no, 
Ba-by' s do-in' do 
Ba-by's own self!" Fast 
Round the corner passed 
Ba-by Fay Fer-ny. 

Stops a great big man, 
Hur-ry-ing all he can, 
"Here! what's this! my! 
Drop-ped down from the sky? 
Some-bod-ys to blame. 
Baby, what 's your name?" 
"Ba-by Fay Fer-ny." 



26 



"Where you go-ing? say!" 

"Day-day." "What's that, hey? 

See the Ba-by fidg-et! 

What d'you want, you midg-et?" 

"Piece of butter-bed, 

Sugy on it, 'lasses on it, 

Jam on it," said 

Ba-by Fay Fer-ny. 

People pause to see, 
Ladies, one, two, three, 
A po-lice-man, too; 
But no one that knew 
Whence the ba-by came; 
"What's your pa-pa's name?" 
"Pa-pa Fay Fer-ny." 

Comes a breath-less maid, 
"Oh, dear! I'm afraid 
Ba-by' s lost and gone, 
Ba-by Fer-gu-son! 
No, there, down the street ! 
O, you natighty, sweet 
Ba-by Fay Fer-ny!" 



September i8th, 1881. 



BABY-LAND. 

How many miles to Baby-land? 
Any one can tell, 

Up one flight, 

To your right, 
Please to ring the bell. 

What can you see in Baby-land? 
Little folks in white; 

Downy heads. 

Cradle beds. 
Faces pure and bright. 

What do they do in Baby-land? 
Dream and wake and play; 
Laugh and crow. 
Shout and grow, 
Jolly times have they. 

What do they say in Baby-land? 
Why, the oddest things ; 
Might as well 
Try to tell 
What the birdie sings. 

Who is Queen of Baby-land? 
Mother, kind and sweet; 

And her love 

Born above. 
Guides the little feet. 



March ipth, 1882. 

28 



A TRIP TO TOY-LAND. 

And how do you get to Toy-land? 
To all little people the joy-land? 

Just follow your nose 

And go on tip-toes, 
It's only a minute to Toy-land. 

And oh! but it's gay in Toy-land, 
This bright, merry, girl-and-boy-land, 

And woolly dogs white 

That never will bite 
You'll meet on the highways in Toy-land. 

Society's fine, in Toy-land, 

The dollies all think it a joy-land, 

And folks in the ark 

Stay out after dark 
And tin soldiers regulate Toy-land. 

There's fun all the year, in Toy-land, 
To sorrow 'twas ever a coy-land; 

And steamers are run. 

And steam cars, for fun. 
They're wound up with keys down in Toy-land. 



Bold jumping- jacks thrive in Toy-land; 
Fine castles adorn this joy-land; 

And bright are the dreams 

And sunny the beams 
That gladden the faces in Toy-land. 

How long do you live in Toy-land? 
This bright, merry, girl-and-boy-land ? 

A few days, at best, 

We stay as a guest. 
Then good-bye, forever, to Toy-land! 



30 



WEE BABIES. 

Babies short and babies tall, 
Babies big and babies small, 
Blue-eyed babies, babies fair. 
Brown-eyed babies with lots of hair, 
Babies so tiny they can't sit up, 
Babies that drink from a silver cup. 
Babies that coo and babies that creep, 
Babies that only can eat and sleep. 
Babies that laugh and babies that talk, 
Babies quite big enough to walk, 
Dimpled fingers and dimpled feet. 
What in the world is half so sweet 
As babies that jump, laugh, cry and crawl. 
Eat, sleep, talk, walk, creep, coo and all 
Wee Babies? 

(Attributed to) Gov. F. W. Pitkin. 

November 28th, 1882. 



31 



BABY BOBBY. 

I know a house so full of noise, 

You'd think a regiment of boys, 

From early morn till close of day. 

Were busy with their romping play. 

And yet, I'm ready to declare. 

There is but one small youngster there. 

A little, golden headed chap, 

Who used to think his mother's lap 

The nicest place that e'er could be 

Until he grew so big that he 

Was 'most a man, and learned what fun 

It is to shout, and jump and run. 

This restless, noisy little elf 

Has learned, alas! to think himself 

Too old in mother's arms to sleep ; 

Yet his blue eyes he cannot keep 

From hiding 'neath their lids so white 

And, climbing on the sofa's height. 

He snuggles down, forgets his play 

And into dreamland sails away; 

And then it is that mamma knows 

Why the whole house so silent grows. 

October isth, 1881. 

32 



PEEK-A-BOO. 

Now, where' s the baby gone? 

All gone away, 
Underneath the handkerchief, 

Sweet little May. 
Baby's eyes are big and blue. 
Almost I see them through. 
While we're playing peek-a-boo, 

May and I. 

Something stirs the corner white 
Out creep the ringlets bright! 
Baby's lips of rosebud hue 
Bubble o'er with laughter, too. 
While we're playing peek-a-boo. 
May and I. 



October i6th, 1881. 



33 



BABY BROTHER. 

See my baby brother, 
Sitting in mamma's lap; 

He's just getting ready 
To take a little nap. 

But before in dreamland 
My baby brother goes, 

I want to count his fingers 
And see his chubby toes. 

Mamma, can't you make him 
Just talk and laugh again, 

So we can find the dimple 
In his sweet cheeks and chin? 

Now he talks a little, 

And laughs — come quick and see 
My baby brother's dimples. 

As cunning as can be! 

His eyes shine like diamonds 
When he looks up so glad, 

O, he's the dearest brother 
A sister ever had. 

The angels love our baby. 

He is so very fair; 
And so they came and kissed him 

And left the dimples there. 

January 2^th, 1882. 

34 



A FUNNY LITTLE BOY. 

A funny little chin, 

A funny little nose, 
A funny little grin, 

Ten funny little toes. 
Two funny little eyes. 

And funny little hands, 
How funnily he tries 

To give his wee commands. 

A funny little chat 

With funny little bees, 
A funny little cat 

And funny toads and trees, 
A funny little dress, 

A funny laugh of joy, 
May heaven ever bless 

My funny little boy. 

A funny little sigh, 

A funny little head. 
That funnily will try 

To miss the time for bed. 
A funny little peep 

From funny eyes that gleam, 
A funny little sleep, 

A funny little dream. 

December 4th, 1881. 

35 



LAST YEAR'S DOLL. 

Fm only a last year's doll! 

I thought I was lovely and fair — 
But alas for the cheeks that were rosy, 

Alas, for the once-flowing hair! 
I'm sure that my back is broken, 

For it hurts me when I rise ! 
Oh, I'd cry for every sorrow, 

But I've lost out both my eyes. 

In comes my pretty mistress, 

With my rival in her arms, 
A fine young miss, most surely. 

Arrayed in her borrowed charms! 
My dress and my slippers, too, 

But sadder, oh, sadder than all. 
She's won the dear love I have lost, 

For I'm only a last year's doll. 

Oh, pity me, hearts that are tender, 

I'm lonely and battered and bruised, 
I'm tucked out of sight in the closet, 

Forgotten, despised and abused! 
I'm only a last year's doll, 

Alone with my troubled heart, 
Sweet mistress, still I love thee, 

Inconstant though thou art. 

February 12th, 1882. 

36 



DOLLS AT SCHOOL. 

Ding, dong, Dolly! School is in, 
Hark! the lessons now begin; 
Keep all the pupils there, 
Dollies nice and neat and fair, 
Fat and lean, short and tall, 
In a row against the wall. 
Lots of little teachers, too. 
Come to show them what to do. 

"Now, Miss Wax, turn out your toes. 
Tell us how you spoiled your nose; 
Miss Rag, pray, for once, sit straight, 
How came you to be so late? 
Do, Miss China, sit down, dear; 
Papa dolls, don't act so queer." 
One, when squeezed, could say, "Mam-ma!" 
Smartest in the class by far. 

Some will graduate next fall. 
Others are almost too small. 
Does your dolly ever go? 
Terms are very cheap, you know, 
Better take her there at once. 
Who would want a doll a dunce? 
"Time is up" ! the teachers shout, 
Ding, dong, dolly! school is out. 

September 2^th, 1881. 

37 



A WORD TO ROVER. 

''Now Rover, do you hear me, sir? 

I am ashamed of you; 
I want you just to understand 

Such conduct will not do. 

"I saw you bark and prance about 

At that poor little kit 
When Nannie brought a little milk, 

And she was drinking it. 

''You drove the cunning little thing, 

So white and soft as silk. 
Way up into the apple tree, 

Then you drank up the milk. 

"You acted like a coward, sir! 

What would you think if I, 
A great big boy, should tease and make 

My little sister cry? 

"Now I shall give to pussy cat 

Your supper, by and by, 
And if you do the like again 

I'll know the reason wh}^" 

February ipth, 1882. 

38 



THE OLD COW. 

Tinkle, tinkle, a bell I hear, 

Ringing softly and drawing near, 

'Tis the gentle cow returning home 

From the pasture lands where she likes to roam, 

Where she feeds on the grasses, fresh and sweet, 
And drinks from the pond where the streamlets meet 
And strolls at noon under shady trees. 
Catching a cooler breath in the breeze. 

Tinkle, tinkle ! her bell rings out. 

While all day long she wanders about ; 

But when the sun is low in the west. 

She is glad to come back to the barn and rest 

September lyth, 1882, 



39 



HOW THE SHEEP FOUND BO-PEEP. 

Ivittle Bo-peep awoke from her sleep, 
Her eyes opened wide and wider, 

For she found herself seated on the grass 
With an old sheep standing beside her. 






Little Bo-peep," said the good, old sheep. 
How glad I am we've found you! 
"Here we are — rams and sheep and lambs — 
"All flocking up around you." 

"You blessed sheep," said little Bo-peep, 
"I've been worried to death about you." 

"We've been searching for you," said the good old 
sheep, 
"We wouldn't go home without you." 

October soth, 1881, 



40 



CLOVER-TOP AND THISTLE-DOWN. 

Clover-top sighed when the wind sang sweet, 

Dropping the thistle-down at her feet; 

'*Oh, dear me, never a day 

Can I roam at my will, but ever, alway. 

In this tiresome meadow must ever stay!" 

Thistle-down floated, then sunk into rest. 
Only to rise at the breezes' behest. 
Hither and yon, on the wings of the air. 
Tired little sprite, so dainty and fair, 
"Oh, to just stop," she sighed, "anywhere." 

Honey-bees swarmed to thistle and clover, 
Sweet little toiling ones, over and over 
A work-a-day song they cheerily sing: 
"Look up, dear hearts, and what the days bring, 
Bless God for it all — yes — everything!" 

October i6th, 1881. 



41 



OUTSIDE MY WINDOW. 

Five little pigeons perched on the barn roof, 
Watching the corn in the hen yard below; 

Close around the white cat is hiding, 

Hoping to catch them if down they should go. 

All of a sudden I open my window. 

With a whiz and a burr the pigeons are gone, 

Pussy darts off round the house in a twinkling. 
And the little white chickens eat up all the corn! 

November 2jth, 1881. 



42 



THE WREN'S NEST. 

"Come, come, Mrs. Brownie,'' says young Mr. 
Wren, 
" 'Tis time to be building our nest; 
For the winter has gone, the spring blossoms have 
come. 
And the trees in green beauty are dressed, 

Dressed, dressed, 
And the trees in green beauty are dressed." 

*'0, where shall we build it, my dear little wife, 

O where shall we build it?" says he — 
"In the sweet woodbine bower, in the rose by the 
door, 
Or way up in the old apple tree. 

Tree, tree — 
Or way up in the old apple tree?" 

"From woodbine," says Brownie, "My dear Mr. 
Wren, 
The Sparrows would drive us away. 
In the rose by the door cats would eat us I'm sure, 
Let us build in the apple tree, pray, 

Pray, pray, 
Let us build in the apple tree pray." 

43 



So away up in the old apple tree, 

Mr. Wren built Brownie's nest, 
And 'tis there she sits now, in the white blossomed 
bough, 
With the baby birds under her breast. 

Breast, breast. 
With the baby birds under her breast. 

September nth, 1881. 



44 



AUNT ELEANOR'S DIAMONDS. 

Aunt Eleanor wears such diamonds! 

Shiny and gay and grand, 
Some on her neck and some in her hair, 

And some on her pretty hand. 
One day I asked my mamma 

Why she never wore them, too; 
She laughed and said, as she kissed my eyes,, 

"My jewels are here, bright blue. 

"They laugh and dance and beam and smile. 

So lovely all the day, 
And never like Aunt Eleanor's go 

In a velvet box to stay. 
Hers are prisoned in bands of gold, 

But mine are free as air. 
Set in a bonny, dimpled face 

And shadowed with shining hair !" 

November 2'/th, 1881. 



45 



THE TWINS. 

Do you know our Peter and Polly, 
So pretty, so plump and so jolly? 
One with merry blue eyes and lips like a cherry, 
And one with dark hair and cheeks brown as a berry ? 
Then this is our Peter and Polly! 

Do you know our Polly and Peter? 

One a little and one a great eater. 
One with jews-harp and whistle and hammer 
Just making a houseful of clamor ; 

And' one with her dollie, and stories, 

And lapf ul of blue morning glories ? 

Then this is our Polly and Peter ! 

November 2yth, 1881. 



46 



OUT DOOR AND IN. 

Five little chickens, 

Wasn't it fun, 
When their mother called them. 

To see them all run? 
Out in the garden path 

She scratched up a bug! 

Fluffy-down caught it first 

And gave a big tug. 
Yellow-back and Top-knot 

Each seized a wing; 
Two ran with all their might 

But never found a thing. 



September nth, 1881. 



47 



MARY AND MARTHA. 

Mary and Martha were two girls 
The only children Mamma had, 

Martha was always very good, 
But Mary was always very bad. 

One morning as they were at play, 
A tiger cat came crawling up, 

And said, "Now, Martha, run away. 
While I upon your sister sup." 

Now Martha hurried homeward, while 
A royal feast the tiger had, 

"Aha," he murmured with a smile, 
I'd eaten her, if she'd been bad !" 



48 



TWO LITTLE BEARS. 

Two little cub-bears, 
Frisky and strong, 

Hair brown and shaggy. 
Claws sharp and long. 

Two little cub-bears 
In a child's breast. 

Fawn-like and gentle. 
Bringing us rest. 

In the green grass rolling, 
Snapping their jaws. 

Now standing upright. 
Licking their paws; 

Why how can that be? 

Not strange you stare, 
W^here was there ever 

A gentle bear? 

Two little cub-bears 
In a child's breast. 

Called bear and forbear^ 
They bring us rest. 

August 28th, 188 1. 

49 



HUSH-A-BY BABY. 

Hush-a-by baby; as the birds fly, 

We are off to the island of Lullaby- 

I am the Captain, you are the crew, 

And the cradle, I guess, is our birch bark canoe; 

We'll drift away from the work-day shore 

For a thousand long leagues or more. 

Till we reach the strand where happy dreams wait, 

Whether we're early or whether we're late. 

Hush-a-by, baby; as the birds fly 

Let us make the snug harbor of Lullaby. 

Some little folks are far on the way; 

Some have put in at Wide-awake Bay; 

Others, I fear, are long overdue; 

Don't let this happen, my darling, to you; 

Let us steer for the coast where happy dreams wait, 

Whether we're early or whether we're late. 

November 13th, 188 1. 



50 



BABY AND I. 

Baby and I, in the twilight sweet, 
Hearing the weary birds repeat 
Cheery good-nights, from tree to tree, 
Dearest of all day's comfort see; 

For weary, too, 

We kiss and coo. 
He gives up all his world for me. 

Baby and I, in the twilight glow. 
Watching the branches to and fro, 
Waving good-nights to the golden west, 
Welcome the hour we love the best; 

We rock and sing, 

Till sleep we bring. 
Who folds him in her downy nest. 

Lingering still in the twilight grey, 
After the radiance fades away, 
I watch my darling, so still, so fair. 
With thankful heart that to my care, 

For happiness 

No words express. 
Awhile God trusts a gift so dear. 



51 



As in his little bed I place 
My babe, in all his slumbering grace, 
Heaven's starry lamps are lit on high, 
One, angel borne, now flashes by. 

And by their light 

Through all the night. 
Celestial watchers will be nigh. 

October 30th, 1881. 



52 



COLIC. 

Baby and I in the weary night 
Are taking a walk for his delight; 
I drowsily stumble o'er stool and chair 
And clasp the babe with a grim despair, 

For he's got the colic 

And paregoric 
Don't seem to ease my squalling heir. 

Baby and I with the morning grey, 
Are griping and squalling and walking away; 
The fire's gone out and I nearly freeze; 
There's a smell of peppermint on the breeze; 

Then Mamma wakes 

And baby takes 
And says, ''Now cook the breakfast, please !" 

November 21st, 1881. 



53 



A HUSHABY SONG. 

Come, tender babe, and on this breast 
Thy silken, golden ringlets rest; 
Shut up thine eyes, those limpid eyes, 
As blue, as sunny as the skies; 
Hush, hush thy sobbing, go to sleep, 
While angels o'er thee vigils keep. 

He sleeps, my darling baby boy. 
My life, my hope, my sweetest joy! 
How like a budding, blushing rose 
His tiny mouth, now in repose! 
How white his chubby, dimpled fists. 
How plump and creased his baby wrists 
His little neck, how soft and sleek. 
His chubby legs, how childish weak! 
How sweet to gaze on baby's face 
And dream of future manhood days. 

Who knows but in the time to be 
His form shall grace the gallows tree? 
Then shall his eyes so pure and bright 
Be veiled by cap as black as night; 
Then shall his tiny hands, alack! 
Be strapped behind his sturdy back! 



54 



Then shall his chubby legs be bound 
With cruel hempen cords around, 
Then shall his neck so white and fair, 
By brutal hands be laid all bare, 
A ruthless noose adjusted here 
Below his tiny, shell-like ear! 

How sweet to gaze on baby's face 
And dream of future manhood days! 



55 



A LULLABY. 

Go, little darling, go, 
Nid nodding to Bye-low; 

The snow white sheep 

Are fast asleep 
In such a pretty row. 
All in the sweet Bye-low; 
Then go, my darling, go. 



September nth, 1881. 



56 



BABY'S COLD. 

Back from off his fevered temples 

Brush his struggling locks of gold, 
Hear his deep stentorious breathing, 

Little darling's caught a cold. 
Hasten, get the soapstone heated. 

Place it at his chubby toes. 
Speed thee for the mutton tallow. 

Grease the little darling's nose. 

January ipth, i88^. 



57 



UTTLE GOLD HEAD. 

The little Gold Head was so ''put out," 
Though none but herself knew what about, 
That she sat on the door steps a while to pout. 
Oh, greedy little Gold Head ! 

"I had one tart, but I wanted two, 
So I'll run away, that's what I'll do!" 
And she found White-wool in the meadow dew 
Cropping the clover red. 

The two were friends, and glad to meet. 
She cried, "Nan-nan, is the clover sweet? 
And can you have all you want to eat?" 
''Ba-a ba-a — !" he said. 

September i8th, 1881, 



58 



TAKING CARE OF KITTY. 

They brushed the clothes, they beat the clothes, 

One sunny April day — 
Their winter clothes I mean — and then 

They packed them all away 
In paper boxes tied around, 

With very strongest strings. 
First freely sprinkling them with some 

Tobacco dust and camphor gum. 

And when their labor done they took 

Their tea and toasted bread, 
"Why, where is kitty?" some one asked, 

And 'T know," Lulu said; 
"She's in my dollies' biggest trunk; 

I brushed and heated her; 
There can't not any moths I dess, 

Det into her nice fur. 
She scratched my fingers when I put 

The camphor stuff about, 
Div me some toast that's buttered froo." 

They left it all to her and flew 
To get poor kitty out. 

August yfh, 1 88 1. 

59 



THE AWFUL FATE OF LITTLE JIM. 

Children hear this dreadful story 
Of a little boy named Jim, 

That upon this day, Thanksgiving, 
You may warning take of him. 

Jim sat down to eat his dinner 
On a bright Thanksgiving day, 

Nor for bib nor even blessing- 
Would the little fellow stay. 

"James," his mother gently warned him, 

"James, you musn't eat too much. 
These are very hearty victuals. 

All these turkeys, quails and such;" 
Jim paid no attention to her. 

Save to give a passing frown. 
He was too entirely busy 

Putting all the good things down. 

Venison, partridge, quail and rabbit, 

Sardines, lobster, chicken pie, 
Down his little gullet vanished 

In the twinkling of an eye. 
"Look a'here, my son," said Papa, 

"You have eaten quite enough. 
You'll be sick if you continue 

To fill up on this 'ere stuff." 



60 



All in vain; his headstrong hopeful 

Would not listen unto him, 
But continued eating, eating. 

Naughty, naughty little Jim; 
Bigger, bigger grows his stomach. 

Filled with cakes and pies and meat. 
Rounder, fuller, tighter, plumper. 

Still he did not cease to eat. 

Last of all the round plum pudding; 

Jim was looking very pale, 
"James, my dear," his Ma protested, 

"Something you must surely ail;" 
Jim rolled up his little eyeballs. 

Put one hand upon his head 
And the other on his stomach, 

"I am feeling sick," he said. 

Papa hastened for the doctor. 

Mamma shrieked and tore her hair, 
All too late to save poor Jimmy, 

He had climbed the golden stair; 
For there came a loud explosion. 

Rending Jimmy all asunder. 
Nevermore his form was witnessed. 

He had bursted all to thunder. 

Six men worked a week with brushes 

Ere enough of James was found 
To adorn a modest corner 

In the family burying ground. 
So to-day, dear little children. 

Ere your appetite inflames 
You to eat more than you ought to. 

Think, oh! think of little James. 

November 30th, 1882. 

61 



ELLEN MAY. 

A sweet and interesting child 
Whose name was Ellen May, 

Met with a most untimely fate 
A week ago today. 

And, though we shudder to relate, 
It happened in this way. 

The air was fresh and balmy like. 
The sun shone clear and bright. 

When little Ellen asked her ma 
If she with Bettie White 

Could on the sidewalk play, and ma 
' Informed her that she might. 

Her mother for the nonce forgot 

Her all accustomed care, 
Deceived, alas ! by glowing rays 

And by the balmy air. 
So little Ellen May went out 

And did not rubbers wear. 

Then played they on the sidewalk there. 

Did little Nell and Bet, 
And running to and fro in sport 

They all too soon did get 
Their pinafores besplashed with mud, 

Their shoes all soaking wet. 



62 



Now Bettie White was strong and hale 

As any child might be, 
She romped and played the livelong day, 

From ev'ry ailment free; 
But Ellen May was fragile like, 

Quite delicate was she. 

And so that night while Betsy slept, 

Poor Ellen gave a whoop 
That made the very rafters ring 

And roused the family group, 
And Mamma, springing, wildly shrieked 

"My baby's got the croup!" 

In vain the doctor's sage advice. 

In vain the patent pills, 
In vain the guileful castor oil, 

In vain the dose of squills. 
Poor Ellen upward turned her toes 

And ceased from mortal ills. 

And so is told the tearful fate 

Of little Ellen May, 
Who, had she put her rubbers on 

When she went out to play 
That mild December afternoon, 

Might be alive today. 



63 



APPLE BLOSSOMS. 

Our little Tom to the orchard strayed, 

Where bloomed the blossoms upon each limb, 

One little blossom bent down where he played 
And breathed a fragrant kiss to him. 

Our little Tom smiled a cunning smile 

And merrily shook his curly head, 
"I'll tackle you, blossom, after a w^hile 

When you grow to be an apple," he said. 

The blossom remarked, " 'Tis a cold, cold day 
When boys like you get away with me," 

But the boy went carelessly on his way 

While the blossom chuckled with fiendish glee. 

The days passed on and the weeks passed on, 
And the blossom into an apple grew, 

When along came Tom and gobbled it down. 
Skin, stem and core and the green seeds too. 

Our little Tommy has angel wings 

And he flops around in the golden sky; 

It's to be presumed he sweetly sings 
Of apple blossoms in the By and By. 

64 



THE SWIMMING BOY. 

A little boy went out to swim 
And took a cake of soap with him 
And slimed each supple little limb. 

And when he on the bank arove 
One long last downward look he gove 
And then into the water dove. 

And trying to regain the top 
In vain, alas! he tried to flop, 
He went so fast he couldn't stop; 

His limbs were soaped from heel to hip 
He couldn't get a half-way grip. 
For, every time he tried, he'd slip. 

The water no resistance gave 
And so beneath the murky wave 
He found a wet untimely grave. 

With thrilling, thundering, thumping thud 
He struck the misty, moisty mud. 
And turtles fattened on his blood. 

We dedicate this little hymn 

To little boys of supple limb 

Who soap themselves before they swim. 

(Attributed to) Col. John Arkins. 

November 2yth, 1882. 



65 



THE AWFUIv BUGABOO. 

There was an awful Bugaboo, 
Whose eyes were red and hair was Blue; 
His teeth were Long and Sharp and White, 
And he went Prowling 'round at night. 

A little girl was Tucked in Bed, 
A pretty Night Cap on her Head; 
Her mamma heard her Pleading say, 
"Oh, do not take the Lamp away!" 

But mamma took away the Lamp 
And oh, the Room was Dark and Damp; 
The little girl was scared to Death, 
She did not Dare to draw her Breath. 

And all at once the Bugaboo 

Came rattling down the Chimney Flue ; 

He perched upon the little Bed, 

And Scratched the girl until she Bled. 

He drank the Blood and Scratched again, 
The little Girl cried out in Vain, 
He picked Her up and Off he Flew, 
This Naughty, Naughty Bugaboo! 

So, children, when in Bed tonight. 
Don't let them Take away the Light, 
Or else the awful Bugaboo 
May come and Fly away with you! 

December ipth, 1881. 

66 



THE MOUNTAIN LION. 

I am a mountain lion free, 

And I roam the mountain side, 
I grit my teeth in savage glee, 

And my chops with gore are dyed ; 
I live on little babies fat 

Which from their homes I steal, 
I love to crunch each toothsome brat, 

And hear his dying squeal! 



February 6th, i88^. 



67 



THE GOOD BOY AND THE BAD. 

There was a worthy little boy 

Whose name was Willie Hood; 
He was as poor as poor can be, 

But he was very good. 
There was another little boy 

Whose name was Jonas Ladd; 
And though his father reeked with wealth, 

The boy was very bad. 
When Christmas came and Santa Claus 

Went hovering about. 
Bad Jonas got his full of truck. 

Good Willie went without. 

November 2^d, 1882. 



68 



A CHRISTMAS WISH. 

I'd like a stocking made for a giant, 

And a meeting house full of toys, 
Then I'd go out in a happy hunt 

For the poor little girls and boys; 
Up the street and down the street, 

And across and over the town, 
I'd search and find them every one, 

Before the sun went down. 

One would want a new jack-knife 

Sharp enough to cut; 
One would long for a doll with hair, 

And eyes that open and shut; 
One would ask for a china set 

With dishes all to her mind; 
One would wish a Noah's ark 

With beasts of every kind. 

Some would like a doll's cook-stove 

And a little toy wash tub ; 
Some would prefer a little drum, 

For a noisy rub-a-dub-dub; 
Some would wish for a story book. 

And some for a set of blocks ; 
Some would be wild with happiness 

Over a new tool-box. 



69 



And some would rather have little shoes, 

And other things warm to wear; 
For many children are very poor 

And the winter is hard to bear ; 
I'd buy soft flannels for little frocks, 

And a thousand stockings or so. 
And the j oiliest little coats and cloaks 

To keep out the frost and snow. 

I'd load a wagon with caramels 

And candy of every kind, 
And buy all the almond and pecan nuts 

And taffy that I could find; 
And barrels and barrels of oranges 

I'd scatter right in the way. 
So the children would find them the very first thing 

When they wake on Christmas day. 



70 



MY LADY. 

My lady's eyes are bright and blue, 

Her hair is soft and golden, 
Her voice is sweeter than the coo 

Of turtle doves when turtles woo. 
Her bright smile would embolden 

The faintest lover. More than this 

She often clambers for a kiss. 

Her little hands are soft and fat. 

Her elbows have a dimple, 
Her dress is quite superb; a hat 

And snowy feather, think of that! 
And yet her tastes are simple; 

Red cape, blue sash, blue skirt, and blue's 

The color of her funny sjioes. 

My lady is not co}^. 

Upon my lap already 
She'll often sit; and to my joy 

She calls me "Fy," or "my dear boy," 
(She can't quite manage "Teddy,") 

Around my neck her arms she'll fold. 

And yet — you couldn't call her bold! 



71 



She says that she will be my wife 

When I'm inclined to marry, 
How sweet, how sweet she'll make my life! 

I have no fear of wedded strife; 
Then wherefore should I tarry? 

Well, if the truth must here be told, 

My lady's only three years old. 

September 25th, 188 1. 



72 



MAMMA'S VALENTINE. 

Baby came toddling up to my knee, 
His chubby features all aglow, 
*'Dess I'se doin' to be 'oor beau, 

See what oo' dot from me!" 

A valentine from my baby boy! 

A crumpled sheet and a homely scrawl, 
In a baby hand — that was all — 

Yet it filled my heart with joy. 

Broken my heart and white my hair. 
And my mother eyes are used to weep, 
My little boy is fast asleep 

In the churchyard over there. 

What shall be mamma's valentine? 
The spirit touch of the baby hand, 
A baby voice from the spirit land, 

Singing a song divine. 

February 14th, 188^. 



73 



LITTLE FLO. 

Yaas, that was many years ago 

This glorious September, 
Ah, though my hair is white as snow, 

How well I kin remember 
The hopes, the fright, the joy, the fears, 

That early autumn mornin'. 
The tremblin' and the burnin' tears, 

While baby was a bornin'. 

She was in thar, an' I outside, 

Whar I could hear her cryin', 
I felt like I could go and hide, 

I swar 'twas wuss nor dyin'. 
To think that I, I hadn't sand. 

With all my pride and scornin', 
Ter hold her leettle tremblin' hand, 

While baby was a bornin'. 

I looked up at the blazin' sun. 

Ah, as the clock struck seven, 
I thought I seen a little one. 

Come sailin' down from Heaven. 
And then I heern a feeble cry, 

I knew the tiny warnin' 
It seemed to come straight from the sky, 

Ah, baby was a bornin'. 



74 



She was the fust, — 'twas years ago, 

And yet she is the dearest, 
An' to my heart my little Flo 

Seems, somehow, alius nearest. 
I guess it must ha' been cos I, 

That dre'ful autumn mornin'. 
Stood at the door and heern the cry 

Of little baby bornin'. 

May 2pth 1882. 



75 



THE PRAYER. 

Long years have passed since that sweet time 
When first I breathed upon the air 
My simple Httle baby prayer, 

A prayer with earnestness sublime; 

Since first my mother clasped my hands 
And bade me e'er I went to sleep, 
Pray God my little soul to keep, 

Take me to dwell in heav'nly lands. 

And now the years on years have fled, 
And tho' the mother's passed away 
And tho' my head be bowed and grey. 

The little prayer that I then said 

Comes floating back on angel wing 
As if, upon the other shore, 
A Httle child had lisped it o'er 

For God's own messengers to bring. 

January 2'^th, 1882. 



76 



JIM'S KIDS. 

Jim was a fisherman, up on the hill, 

Over the beach lived he and his wife, 
In a little house — you can see it still — 

An' their two fair boys; upon my life 
You never seen two likelier kids, 

In spite of their antics an' tricks an' noise 

Than them two boys! 

Jim would go out in his boat on the sea. 

Just as the rest of us fishermen did. 
An' when he come back at night thar'd be 

Up to his knees in the surf, each kid, 
A beck'nin' and cheerin' to fisherman Jim ; 

He'd hear 'em, you bet, above the roar 

Of the waves on the shore. 

But one night Jim came a sailin' home 

And the little kids weren't on the sands; 
Jim kinder wondered they hadn't come. 

And a tremblin' took hold o' his knees and hands. 
And he learnt the worst up on the hill. 

In the little house, an' he bowed his head, 

"The fever," they said. 

77 



'Twas an awful time for fisherman Jim, 

With them darlin's a dyin' afore his eyes, 
They kep' a callin' an' beck'nin' him. 

For they kinder wandered in mind. Their cries 
Were about the waves and fisherman Jim 

And the little boat a sailin' for shore 

Till they spoke no more. 

Well, fisherman Jim lived on and on. 

And his hair grew white and the wrinkles came, 
But he never smiled and his heart seemed gone. 

And he never was heard to speak the name 
Of the little kids who were buried there. 

Up on the hill in sight o' the sea, 

Under a willow tree. 

One night they came and told me to haste 

To the house on the hill, for Jim was sigk, 
And they said I hadn't no time to waste. 

For his tide was ebbin' powerful quick 
An' he seemed to be wand' r in' and crazy like, 

An' a seein' sights he oughtn't to see. 

An' had called for me. 

And fisherman Jim sez he to me, 

"It's my last, last cruise, you understand, 
I'm sailin' a dark and dreadful sea. 

But off on the further shore, on the sand, 
Are the kids, who's a beck'nin' and callin' my name 

Jess as they did, oh, mate, you know. 

In the long ago." 



78 



No sir ! he wasn't afearecl to die, 

For all that night he seemed to see 
His little boys of the years gone by, 

And to hear sweet voices forgot by me ; 
An' just as the mornin' sun came up, 

"They're a holdin' me by the hands," he cried. 

And so he died. 

December 30th, 1882. 



79 



THE CHRISTMAS TREASURES. 

I count my treasures o'er with care — 
A little toy that baby knew — 
A little sock of faded hue — 

A little lock of golden hair. 

Long years ago this Christmas time, 
My little one, my all to me — 
Sat robed in white upon my knee 

And heard the merry Christmas chimes. 

"Tell me, my little golden head. 

If Santa Claus should come tonight. 
What shall he bring my baby bright — 

What treasure for my boy?" I said. 

And then he named the little toy. 

While in his round and truthful eyes 
There came a look of glad surprise, 

That spoke his trustful, childish joy. 

And as he lisped his evening prayer 
He asked the boon with baby grace. 
And toddling to the chimney place, 

He hung his little stocking there. 



80 



That night as length'ning shadows crept, 
I saw the white winged angels come, 
With music to our humble home 

And kiss my darling as he slept. 

They must have heard his baby prayer, 
For in the morn, with glowing face, 
He toddled to the chimney place. 

And found the little treasure there. 

They came again one Christmas tide — 
That angel host so fair and white — 
And, singing all the Christmas night, 

They lured my darling from my side. 

A little sock, a little toy — 

A little lock of golden hair — 
The Christmas music on the air — 

Awatching for my baby boy. 

But if again that angel train 

And golden head come back for me 
To bear me to eternity, 

My watching will not be in vain. 

December 2^th, 1881. 



81 



poems ot the Ipeople. 



Ipoeme of tbe people* 



THE ADVERTISER. 



I am an advertiser great! 

In letters bold 

The praises of my wares I sound, 
Prosperity is my estate; 

The people come, 

The people go 

In one continuous, 

Surging flow. 
They buy my goods and come again 
And I'm the happiest of men; 
And this the reason I relate, 
I'm an advertiser great! 



85 



There is a shop across the way 

Where ne'er is heard a human treads 
Where trade is paralyzed and dead, 

With ne'er a customer a day. 
The people come, 
The people go. 
But never there. 
They do not know 

There's such a shop beneath the skies, 

Because he does not advertise ! 

While I with pleasure contemplate 

That I'm an advertiser great. 

The secret of my fortune lies 

In one small fact, which I may state. 

Too many tradesmen learn too late. 
If I have goods, I advertise. 

Then people come 

And people go 

In constant streams, 

For people know 
That he who has good wares to sell 
Will surely advertise them well; 
And proudly I reiterate, 
I am an advertiser great ! 



86 



BE NOT FORGETFUL. 

Some folks believe in angels 
A prowling around on earth ; 

Experience teaches me better, 

You may take it for what it's worth. 

Las' night a dreamy-eyed creature 
Crep' up in the darkness and said, 

"Please gimme a quarter mister, 
Ter pay fer a supper and bed." 

I looked at him sharp and I thought 
I saw a strange light in his eyes, 

An' a suddent thought came upon me- 
'Twas a angel chap in disguise! 

So I reached down in my breeches, 
And gin him my last stray dime, 

An' he crept back into the darkness, 
A blessin' me all the time. 

A calm like peace came on me, 
An' them blessins rung in my ear, 

Till later that night I run across 
That thar angel a guzzlin' beer. 

Arter all, it done me more good. 
To give to that thirsty moke. 

Than if he'd a been a angel 
A playin' a practical joke. 

April 15th, 1882. 

87 



THE ANGEL'S VISIT. 

Do I believe in Angels? Yes, 

And in their prowlings to and fro — 
I entertained one long ago, 

In guise of age and sore distress. 

He clambered up the narrow stairs. 
And by his heavenly smile I knew 
He was a truant angel who 

Had come to visit unawares. 

"Rest thee, old man,'' I gaily cried, 

"And share my humble couch and cheer- 
Thou shalt not want for comfort here — 

My home and heart are open wide." 

Relieved of temporary cares, 

The old man laid him down and slept; 

And in my thankfulness I wept — 
I'd entertained him unawares! 

I never shall forget that night, 

My happy dreams, my slumbers sound, 
And when I woke at noon I found 

My angel vanished out of sight. 

Perhaps in years that are to be. 
That angel will return, and yet 
I sometimes fear he may forget 

To bring my overcoat to me. 
January ipth, 1882. 



THE TWIN FOLI.OWERS. 

Two ragged holes beam sadly out 
Below the suburbs of this vest, 
Like guardian angels of unrest, 

They follow him for e'er about. 

No picture could the public scan, 
With half the greedy, fixed intent. 
That on those dual holes is bent. 

Those trade marks of an honest man. 

How came those hungry holes both there? 
Ah, ask the hours of toil and pain, 
The pencil, lamp and woven cane, 

The creaky, rusty, office chair! 

Why, everything is new at first 
And framed to stem the tide of life, 
But all must yield at last to strife. 

And even pants at length will burst. 

And so, O honest holes, we greet 
You with a proud and hearty grace ; 
Good welcome to the resting place. 

Thrice welcome to the royal seat ! 

In all the turmoil, all the strife. 
There are no teachers half so true. 
To teach us what we learn from you. 

The stern realities of life. 



89 



GEMS FOR THE PRINTER. 

Slug 5 was portly and round and fair, 
And he threw in type with a lordly air 
Under the coal-oil's lurid glare. 

One of Slug 5's most innocent joys 
Was, when surcease from work and noise, 
He jeffed with the other printer boys. 

It made the printer men howl and moan 

When on the fatal imposing stone 

They saw his handful of em quads thrown. 

One night, unknowing of Slug 5's fame 
At playing this most unfortunate game, 
A slim young man to the news room came. 

And, seeing the slender creature near. 
Slug 5 remarked with a bitter leer 
"I'll jeff you, sir, for cigars or beer." 

And the slim man started and tossed his head. 
The shaft struck home and his heartstrings bled, 
"Pray, what is jeffing?" the victim said. 



90 



And Slug 5, thinking his ruin planned, 

Explained the process in detail, and 

The young man yearned for to take a hand. 

Then three times threw Slug 5 the tricks, 
And he made a total of just eight nicks, 
And he quoth, *'He never can beat that fix." 

The young man gathered the em quads too, 
A Molly, a cock and two he threw, 
"Now, one more throw and that will do !" 

The young man threw, and there supine 
On the cold, cold stone, in a ghastly line. 
Loomed seven nicks, or a total nine! 

March 2pth, 1882. 



91 



DISCONTENT. 

A printer man in sotto tone, 

Did once his bitter fate bemoan; 

"How does it always happen that 

My 'takes' are 'solid' and not fat?" 

I could not bear his piteous look, 

And so I hung upon the "hook" 

A "leaded take" which, with a leer. 

He grasped, while these words reached my ear 

"Yes, just my luck, there'll never be 

No double leaded takes for me!" 

Then that I might for just once make 

His soul content, a rousing take 

Of double-leaded nonpareil 

Upon that hook I hung. Ah, well. 

He still was sad and muttered low, 

"I s'pose 't'll alius be just so. 

Why don't they mark in some fat thing. 

Like slugs, to swell a fellow's string?" 

That printer man will sigh no more, 

He lies a corpse upon the floor! 

March 2pth, 1882. 



92 



THE POET'S THEME. 

If I could sing as the angels sing 

In heaven above, 
I would raise my voice to a heavenly thing, 

And that is love. 
But my voice is harsh and my petted sense 

Is of humble stripe. 
And oh! it's a lowly theme I choose, 

The which is tripe. 

The world may laugh and the world deride. 

Ah, well, so be, 
I take it stewed and I take it fried, 

It stays by me, 
It fills my soul with a strange delight. 

As well my maw. 
And I see in my dreams the livelong night, 

My mother-in-law. 

I am chased by bulls and gnawed by rats, 

Down chasms falling. 
Mine ears are filled with the noise of cats 

Like demons squalling, 
I am drowned and hung and burned to death. 

Dunned by a tailor, 
A witch befouls me with her breath 

And loathsome squalor. 



93 



Bah! sing if ye will, in rounded rhymes, 

Each varying passion, 
But for regular, thrilling, exciting times, 

In cold blood fashion. 
Give me the scenes of blood, of gore. 

Of fiendish stripe. 
Of goblins flitting from ceiling to floor, 

Aye, give me tripe! 

March nth, 1882. 



94 



PARADISE REGAINED. 

Once on a time a man did die, 

And bursting forth, his soul flew straight, 
Up to the pearly realms on high 

Where good St. Peter kept the gate. 

The sainted Peter shook his head 
And would not lend a pitying ear, 

"Such worthless folks as you," he said, 
"Need make no application here!" 

In vain the hapless soul implored, 
The warden bade him go to grass, 

In vain he begged and mourned and roared, 
St. Peter would not let him pass. 

Till, goaded on by misery's stings. 
And tortured by revenge and spite 

That soul drew back and flapped its wings. 
And crowed three times with all its might. 

St. Peter blushed a scarlet blush, 

"Pass in," he cried, "I'll check your hat, 

Don't be personal, but hush 

In future all such sounds as that!" 

Your soul may be as white as snow. 

Your life be full of good intent, 
'Twill matter not, some one will know 

The record to your detriment. 

October ^ist, 1882. 

95 



THE PIOUS BANKER. 

There was a banker, rich and proud, 

A church man to a high degree, 
And all society allowed 

A worthy citizen was he; 
And to his worship from afar 

The sycophantic public ran. 
And he was dubbed, with just eclat, 

"A truly, truly honest man." 

One morning, so the story goes, 

The banker was no more in sight; 
The public loud bewailed their woes. 

Their money, too, had vanished quite. 
And then the people prated loud 

Of "robbing on the pious plan," 
They failed to see the banker proud 

Was truly still a non est man. 



May ipth, 1883. 



96 



THE REVIVAL. 

And when, one night the parson come, 

His piety friends to greet. 
He found a crowd of the bummer gang 

All sot on the hopeful seat. 
He seemed for to take their meanin' in, 

But never a mite he stirred, 
An' the prayer he raised to the Lord that night 

Was the powerfulest ever heard. 

He prayed for all mankind that's vile 

A livin' on earth below, 
And he axed a special prayer for them 

As sat on that thar front row. 
The gang they stood it as best they could 

Till it got too drefful hot, 
And then the eggs begun for to fly 

From where them bummers sot. 

The parson allowed a quick Amen 

And stepped squar up to the crowd, 
"Show me the feller as flung them eggs !" 

He inquiry made aloud. 
**Waal, what do you purpose to do?" 

One on em axed in reply. 
But before he knowed it he calmly drapt, 

With a balcony onto his eye. 

97 




Them fellers fell and chawed the floor, 

But the parson never stopt 
Till he'd cleaned the crowd completely out 

And the last durned cuss had dropt, 
Then lookin' around on the women folk 

In a calm and peaceful way, 
He sez, "Now, sence the episode 

Has concluded, let us pray." 

From that thar moment the grace o' the Lord 

Pervaded our little town, 
And them folks got it wust who'd sworn 

They'd get that preacher down. 
That's why I have said and still maintain 

Revivals is doubtless right. 
But where would ha' been the grace o' God, 

Ef that preacher'd been licked that night? 

November 22d, 1882. 



98 



UVING AND DYING. 

Joe Smith was eke a goodly man 

As ever lived on earth, 
The world admired and loudly praised 

His truly pious worth; 
His life was full of charity 

And free from sinful pride 
But scarce had lived to thirty- four, 

When one calm eventide 
A mule kicked him quite playfully. 

And Smith soon after died. 

John Brown, a knave of deepest hue, 

Dwelt in the selfsame town, 
A grosser, meaner, viler scamp 

There never lived than Brown; 
He cussed, he swore, he smoked, he chewed. 

He even keno played. 
And down in Texas years ago 

They say a man he slayed; 
Yet he lived on contentedly 

And lots of money made, 
Till finally, a grey haired man, 

John Brown lay down to die. 

99 J.. 

,L.ofC. r^ 



His wife and children gathered 'round, 

A preacher lingered nigh, 
The only token of his death 

A quiet, gentle sigh. 
We'd like to live as did old Smith, 

Revered by all the town, 
But when it comes to dying, we'd 

Prefer to die like Brown. 

November 26th, 1882. 



px 



100 



ELECTING FATE. 

Two pieces of ice in the ice house lay 
Waiting the dawn of another day, 

And as they lingered there side by side, 
"Oh, tell me brother, since we must die. 
What fate would you choose for the by and by ?' 

The giddiest piece of the couple cried. 

"Oh, I am fondly and gently bred," 
The other ice cake sighing said, 

"And I would melt in a glass of tea 
With a maiden stirring me to and fro 
And mixing me up with sugar I trow, 

Such, I pray, may my ending be." 

The other cake for a moment smiled, 
"I always have been a wayward child 

And it strikes me now I would like to float 
In a brandy punch or a whisky sour. 
Beguiling some wretched, mortal hour. 

And cooling some thirsty mortal's throat." 

The hours passed on and the days went by 
Till finally came their time to die. 

And the gentle piece of ice expired 
In a bowl of tea, while the other piece, 
In rare libation found surcease, 

Each one perished as each desired. 

lOI 



What of the maiden who quaffed the tea? 
They planted her under a willow tree, 

And the mourners come and the mourners go, 
Ice cold tea was the dreadful cause. 
Nature avenged her outraged laws, 

Neuralgia wielded the deadly blow. 

And the man — oh, the man of the whisky sour, 
He's living and prospers this very hour, 

And he struck it rich in a Gunnison mine. 
Oh, it's always the same with ice and men. 
It's nice to be giddy now and then. 

Take your death in tea and your life in wine. 

August yth, 1881. 



102 



ROMANCE OF THE CUCUMBER. 

A cucumber green on the table lay, 
Biding his swiftly approaching death, 

And he smiled at the vinegar over the way, 
And unto the pepper and salt he saith, 

^'You'll keep me company, friends, I trust. 
We'll die like Sampson if die we must." 

A maiden sat in a chair hard by, 

A beautiful maiden of supple grace. 
And delicate features, and large blue eye. 

And a rapturous transport over her face. 
A youth drove moodily home that night. 

In the last faint streak of the twilight blush, 
And the moon as of one in a piteous plight, 

Invaded the evening's solemn hush; 
One look at the river, one little splash 

And the eddy encircled the lover rash. 

A sorrowing train with the tell-tale bier. 
Passed over the road to the family lot 

While the mourners gazed at the gardens near. 
And the cucumbers whispered, ''Forget us not." 

One little spirit by angels blest, 
One little stomach for aye at rest. 

(Attributed to) R. M. Field. 

August 28th, 1881. 

103 



HER ESSAY. 

A seminary graduate 

Was Miss Samantha Brown, 
The wisest, wittiest, prettiest girl 

In all our lovely town; 
Her graduation essay was 

The finest ever read 
In east or west or north or south 

Or anywhere, 'tis said. 

Her dress was white pekay, en train, 

And built with fairy skill, 
'Twas tucked and pleated, gored and trimmed 

With many a flounce and frill; 
The overdress was baby blue 

Enwrought with laces fine, 
Oh, all the women folks declared 

The essay was divine ! 

The basque was cut in Perisian style. 

With pipings all of silk. 
The corsage was besplashed with bars 

Of velvet pale as milk; 
The waist was made decollete 

And showed a comely form; 
The essay — doubt you what we say? 

Took all the men by storm. 



104 



DEPARTED FRIENDS. 

Where is the doodlebug that erst 

When blushing, fragrance breathing flowers, 
Wooed back by April's kindly showers, 
Beamed gladly forth from Flora's bowers, 

Where is the doodlebug, we say, 

That burst 

All into life and toiled away 
Through sand and sun of summer day? 

Where is the gauzey white pekay 

Which when the spring, serene and warm 
Succeeded wintry wind and storm. 
Bedecked the average female form, 

O where that fluted biased thing 

We pra}^ 

That with the advent of each spring. 
The beaux admire and poets sing? 

Gone, like a fevered, summer dream. 
Gone like the soon forgotten lay. 
Gone like the friend of yesterday. 
The doodlebug, the white pekay! 

But when the vernal breeze and rain 

And beam 

Refresh the hillside and the plain. 
The two will come, will come again. 



105 



THE COMPLIMENT. 

Arrayed in snow-white pants and vest, 

And other raiment fair to view, 
I stood before my sweetheart Sue — 

The charming creature I love best. 
"Tell me and does my costume suit?" 

I asked that apple of my eye — 

And then the charmer made^ reply, 
"Oh, yes, you do look awful cute !" 

Although I frequently had heard 

My sweetheart vent her pleasure so, 
I must confess I did not know 

The meaning of that favorite word. 

But presently at window side 

We stood and watched the passing throng. 

And soon a donkey passed along 
With ears like wings extended wide. 
And gazing at the doleful brute 

My sweetheart gave a merry cry — 

I quote her language with a sigh — 
"O, Charlie, ain't he awful cute?" 

August ^th, 1882. 

106 



THE CRUEL FATHER. 

When charming Christine Nilsson sang 

In our aesthetic town 
And all our local country rang 

With praise of her renown, 
A gentle, comely maid we knew 
Made loud and numerous ado, 

The fair Camelia Brown. 

'T want to hear Miss Nilsson sing," 

To her papa said she; 
**And so tonight I pray you bring 

A bonnet home for me; 
For how the other girls would stare 
If I should show this old one there, 

I hate the horrid thing!" 

But he, with purpose to deride 
And give his child the bluff, 

"I'll buy no bonnets now," he cried, 
"The old one's good enough." 
The fair Camelia hung her head 
And not another word she said, 

She simply gasped and died. 

December i8th, 1882. 

107 



A PIAZZA TRAGEDY. 

The beauteous Ethel's father has a 
Newly painted front piazza, 

He has a 

Piazza ; 
When with tobacco juice 'twas tainted, 
They had the front piazza painted, 

That tainted 

Piazza painted. 

Algernon called that night, perchance, 
Arrayed in comely sealskin pants. 

That night, perchance. 

In gorgeous pants; 
Engaging Ethel in a chat 
On that piazza down he sat, 

In chat. 

They sat. , 

And when an hour or two had passed, 
He tried to rise, but oh, stuck fast. 

At last 

Stuck fast! 
Fair Ethel shrieked, 'Tt is the paint!" 
And fainted in a deadly faint, 

This saint 

Did faint. 

io8 



Algernon sits there till this day, 
He cannot tear himself away; 

Away ? j 

Nay, nay, 
His pants are firm, the paint is dry. 
He's nothing else to do but die; 

To die! 

O my! 



109 



THE FRONT GATE. 

An old and crippled gate am I, 

And twenty years have passed 
Since I was swung up high and dry 

Betwixt these posts so fast; 
And now I've grown so powerful weak, 

Despised by man and beast, 
I'm scarcely strong enough to squeak. 

Although I'm never greased. 

'Twas twenty years ago, I say, 

When Mr. Enos White 
Came kind of hanging 'round my way, 

'Most every other night. 
He hung upon my starboard side 

And she upon the other. 
Till Susan Smith became his bride 

And in due time a mother. 

I groaned intensely when I heard. 

Despite I am no churl. 
My doom breathed in a single word. 

The baby was a girl! 
And as she grew and grew and grew, 

I loud bemoaned my fate. 
For she was very fair to view. 

And I — I was the gate! 



no 



Then, in due time a lover came, 

Betokening my ruin, 
A dapper fellow. Brown by name, 

The grown-up baby wooin'; 
They swung upon me in the gloam, 

And talked of moon and star, 
They're married now and live at home 

Along with ma and pa. 

My lot was happy for a year. 

No courting, night or day, 
I had no thought, I had no fear. 

Bad luck would come my way ; 
But oh, this morning — save the mark! 

There came a wild surprise, 
A shadow flitted grim and dark 

Across my sunny skies. 

A doctor, with a knowing smile, 

A nurse with face serene, 
A bustle in the house a while. 

Great scot! what can it mean? 
My hinges ache, my lock is weak. 

My pickets are awhirl, 
I hear that awful doctor speak. 

It is another girl! 

January 26th, 188^. 



in 



THE RECREANT. 

While the stars are twinkling bright above 
And Luna sinks in western steeps, 
Her lonely watch fair Claudia keeps, 

And broods upon her maiden love. 

Upon her pallid cheek a tear 

Strays from her wan and fireless eye. 
And from her lips escapes a sigh, 

"Oh, why is not Alberto here!" 

Is that his voice in yonder dale, 
That floats like music on the air? 
No, no, Alberto is not there, 

'Tis but the tuneful nightingale. 

Is it his step upon the hill. 

That brings the bloom to Claudia's cheeks? 

Nay, this a thirsty mule that seeks 
Refreshment at the mountain rill. 

Heaven help thee in thy piteous plight, 
O Claudia, fair as summer skies ; 
Compose thy sorrow, wipe thine eyes, 

Alberto will not come tonight. 

For in the midnight's solemn hush. 
He breathes a vow that smells of wine, 
He holds a hand that is not thine, 

He dallies with a bobtail flush. 



112 



LOVE'S REQUEST. , 

George, do not come tonight, 

I would not cause thee pain, but oh ! 
I must command thee, darling, go. 

And when the moon's pale light 

Doth shimmer through the waving trees, 
And on the softly dancing breeze 

The nightingale throbs his refrain, 

Come not again, forgive the pain, 

George, do not come tonight. 

Nay, must I tell thee why? 

And dost thou doubt this loyal heart? 

'Tis better, George, that we should part. 
For, O my darling, I 

Discover by the pain 'tis making, 

That horrid vaccination's taking. 
Yet, if you'll promise on your knees 
You will not tease me for a squeeze. 
Tonight, George — you may come. 

January isth, 1882. 



113 



THE DIMPLE. 

The lines by the arrows of Cupid oppressed, 
The soul to the fairest of women addressed ; 

My love hath the eyes of a fright-stricken doe, 
And a voice that is mournfully tender; 

And hair that is dark as eternity's flow 
And a waist that is witchingly slender; 

But ah, what I count her delightfullest charm 

Is the dear little dimple she wears in her arm, 
A charm. 

That fair, precious dimple she wears in her arm ! 

It loves to coquette with my eagersome eyes, 

'Neath its mantle of gossamer laces, 
And my lady affects the sincerest surprise 
That I praise not her other fair graces; 
Aye, vows she is racked with the direst alarm 
Lest I too fondly praise that cute spot in her arm ; 

Alarm 
For the round, laughing dimple she wears in her 
arm. 



114 



Nay, soothe thy small jealousy, maiden so fair, 
And grant me a boon that is simple, 

For oh, I'd esteem it a favor most rare, 
A kiss on that round laughing dimple! 

You surely must know that there's never a harm 

In kissing a dimple one wears on the arm ; 
No harm. 

In kissing that dimple that smiles on your arm! 

"Oh, degenerate lover," methinks she replies, 
And I tremble to hear her so speak, 

"You may kiss, since your kisses I loftily prize, 
This cute little mole on my cheek. 

What you think is a dimple, I pray you be calm. 

Is an old vaccination scar deep in my arm, 
Be calm! 

It's an old vaccination you see on my arm ! 

November ^fhj 1881. 



115 



A SIREN SOLD. 

I can but think a woman's wink 

Is rarely accidental, 
The sex at flirting is adept, 
For tempted Eve, old Adam wept, 

And suffered supplemental. 

We all recall man's primal fall 
And how Eve tried to cater 
To our first daddy's taste for fruit, 
Before he donned the fig leaf suit, 
Ah, too-too Alma Mater. 

The other day, far up Broadway, 

I saw a seal clad damsel. 
Whose lashes quivered 'neath the gaze 
Of every man that dared to raise 

His eyes and look at mam'selle. 

I later met this arch coquette. 

Returning from her shopping, 
Demure and innocent she seemed, 
And yet a roguish twinkle gleamed 
From optic gently dropping. 



ii6 



What did I then, O evil men, 

Who wickedly are guessing, 
You don't believe a solemn oath, 
/ didn't (though by no means loath), 
Now isn't this distressing"? 



't3 



(Attributed to) H. Clay Lukens. 
Fehmary idth, 1882. 



117 



AS TO EYES. 

When sorrow casts upon the world 
Her pall of ghastly, ghostly hue, 

And when misfortune's darts are hurled. 
Oh, give me laughing eyes of blue ! 

Their coquetry would fain beguile 

From sorrow's frowning face a smile. 

When mirthfulness and laughter crown 
The sports of banquet, song and dance. 

Then would I choose the eyes of brown. 
The earnest, truthful eyes; perchance 

Their solemn glories would recall 

My thoughts from levity and all. 

But, ah, since melancholy, mirth 
And dire misfortune every day 

Walk hand in hand o'er all the earth, 
'Tis red eye that's my choice, I say, 

Too much of neither does it bring. 

It sort of equalizes things. 



ii8 



THE APRIL FOOL. 

'Twas in the spring of '72 

I first met Bessie, charming girl, 

Who caught me with her eyes of blue 

And hair of mellow golden hue, 
That wandered into many a curl. 

One night I asked her for my wife. 

While comin' home from singin' school, 

Protesting else my future life 

Would be a blank and dreary waste 
From which all sunlight were erased; 
"Yes," answered then the pretty miss, 
I stole a furtive, burning kiss 
And called her, in a burst of bliss, 

"My precious little April Fool." 

'Tis now the spring of '83, 

And we are married. Bet and I, 

I will confess, 'twixt you and me, 

She is not what she used to be. 
My angel of the years gone by ; 

And when I think of that sweet time 
I took her home from singing school. 

I feel like weaving into rhyme 



119 



This bitter, weary, sad reflection, 
Resulting from profound dejection : 
When I went courting that fair miss, 
And begged her grant me wedded bliss. 
And sealed her answer with a kiss, 
'Twas I who was the April Fool ! 

April 2d, 1883. 



120 



THE TWO MEETINGS. 

Ah, 'twas a glorious autumn night 

Full fifteen years ago, 
The moon and stars were shining bright, 
Bathing the hills in mystic light, 
When robed in garb of snowy white. 
My Ethel met me in the hall, 
Responsive to my pleading call. 

Now what did I or what did she 

The world shall never know; 
Not e'en the moon nor stars could see 
Of all the world most happy we; 
Oh, 'twas an hour of ecstasy; 
We pledged our loves and lives and all. 
When Ethel met me in the hall. 

Ah, well, we met again last night, 

('Twas rather late, I trow) ; 
Some how, I didn't feel just right, 
(I may have been a little tight) 
When clad in nightly robe of white 
My Ethel met me in the hall 
And braced me up against the wall. 



121 



Now what did I or what did she 

I'm not prepared to show ; 
It may suffice to state that we 
Had quite a little jubilee, 
And I may say ('twixt you and me) 
It is with pain that I recall 
How Ethel met me in the hall. 

February 24th, 1882. 



122 



PLEASURES OF MEMORY. 

You asked me of your mother, child, 
Your mother whose fair form is dust. 
Whose soul is with the saints, I trust, 

Why, as you asked me that and smiled, 
Methought I saw in your young face 
A sweet reflection of her grace. 

Oh, she was nobly, grandly fair. 
Her eyes were as the heaven's blue, 
Her hair was of a golden hue. 

Her ruby lips beyond compare, 
O child, your mother in her day, 
'Mongst beauties held the beauties' sway. 

And was she gentle, child, as thou? 
Why wrench the arrows in my heart. 
Why bid the burning tear-drops start! 

O child, methinks I see her now. 
Waiting down by the wicket gate 
As years agone she used to wait. 

Why do I weep? Who would not weep. 
To think of how she waited there 
Till she could grip me by the hair 

And in her wifely fashion sweep 

The garden walk with my poor frame ; 
Patience was your sweet mother's name. 

March 6th, 1882. 

123 



SYMPATHY. 

The tears streamed from his swollen eyes, 
His sunken cheeks were pale as death, 
And as he wept, his fevered breath 

Was broken into moans and sighs. 

"O sorrowing, chastened one," I cried, 
"Tell me thy grief that I may fill 

Thine ears with pity." He replied, 
"Alas, sweet sir, my wife is ill!" 

Ah, then adown my bearded cheek 
The burning tears began to roll, 
And sympathy possessed my soul 

To such extent I scarce could speak. 
"Unhappy man," at last I said, 

"God shield you from the bitterest blow 
That e'er can fall on mortal head. 

The loss of her you worship so ! 

"For oh! the dearest thing in life, 

Vouchsafed to man from Heav'n above, 
For him to cherish, is the love 

Of one whom love hath made his wife." 
"Nay," cried the man, "The howl I raise 

Is not because I'm such a lover. 
But oh ! because the doctor says. 

My wife is likely to recover!" 

March nth, 1882. 

124 



so LONELY. 

There's something in the good man's face, 

It is very rare to see, 
On his brow is throned a certain grace. 

That tells us he is free. 
Why these smiles and all this smirking. 

Where once there was a frown ? 
Oh, what strange influence is working ? 

Ah, his wife is out of town ! 

He was ne'er disposed to cavil. 

And was limited in wealth, 
And when he bade her travel. 

To the seashore for her health, 
She said, '^Won't you be lonely?" 

Then he mournfully looked down, 
"I shall miss you, dearest, only," 

And his wife went out of town ! 

Foolish woman, pray take warning. 

From these lines so sadly true; 
Though he writes you every morning 

And swears he pines for you. 
He's a giddy, gidd}^ masher, 

And he's doing things up brown. 
In a friskier way and rasher. 

Since his wife is out of town. 

June 2ist, 1882. 

125 



A GOLDEN HAIR. 

Only a golden hair 

Found on my coat to-day, 
Why should my lady stare, 
Why wear an injured air, 

Why should she say, 
"Love, we must sever. 
Farewell, forever?" 

Curse on that golden hair 
Found on my coat to-day! 

However came it there. 

By means of foul or fair, 
I cannot say; 

But this, I know, alack! 

My lady's hair is black ! 



January ^d, i88^. 



126 



ONLY A WOMAN'S HAIR. 

Only a woman's hair 

Binding the now to the past, 
Only a single thread 

Too frail to last; 
Only a woman's hair 

Threading a tear and a sigh, 
Only a woman's hair 

Found to-day in the pie. 

(Attributed to) W. B. Felker. 
November 28th, 1882. 



127 



THE FIDDLER. 

Flip! Zip! Tweedle dee dum, 
Nimble fingers and pliant thumb ; 
Flip! Zip! Tweedle dee dee, 
Why don't every one envy me? 
Flip ! Zip ! Straight as a pin, 
Fiddle nestling under my chin, 
All the world's people. 

And all that you see, 
Can never make aught 

But a fiddler of me. 

(Attributed to) Emil Wolff. 
November 28th, 1882. 



128 



TO THE MAY FLY OF THE ANGLER. 

Thou art a frail and lovely thing, 

Engendered by the sun; 
A moment only on the wing 

And thy career is done. 

Thou sportest in the evening beam 

An hour — an age to thee — 
In gayety above the stream 

Which soon thy grave must be. 

Although thy life is like to thee, 

An atom — art thou not 
Far happier than thou e'er couldst be 

If long life were thy lot? 

For then deep pangs might wound thy breast, 

And make thee wish for death; 
But as it is, thou'rt soon at rest, 

Thou creature of a breath. 



129 



TO MRS. LYDIA E. PINKHAM. 

There is a little bird that sings, 

"Sweetheart!" 
I know not what his name may be, 
I only know his notes please me 
As loud he sings, and this sings he, 

"Sweetheart!" 

I've heard him sing on soft spring days, 

"Sweetheart !" 
And when the sky was dark above. 
And wintry winds had stripped the grove, 
He still poured forth those words of love, 

"Sweetheart!" 

And like the bird my heart, too, sings, 

"Sweetheart!" 
When heaven is dark or bright or blue, 
When trees are bare or leaves are new, 
It thus sings on and sings of you 

"Sweetheart!" 

What need of other words than these, 

"Sweetheart!" 
If I should sing a whole year long, 
My love would not be shown more strong 
Than by this short and simple song, 

"Sweetheart!" 

November 2d, 1882. 

130 



THE FISHERMAN. 

I was as proud a man and brave 

As ever sailed the sea, 
For I was born upon the wave 

And it was home to me, 
Till Jennie came and promise gave 

My faithful, bonnie bride to be. 

Then were we wed and ere a year 
Like one sweet dream had sped, 

A tiny angel doubly dear, 
A hallowed joylight shed 

Around our hearthstone far and near, 
Our precious little golden head. 

Oh those were happy times to me, 
When, floating with the tide 

Back to the shore, I used to see 
Each night my bonnie bride 

And little baby in her glee 

A playin' at her mother's side. 

Aye, forty years! an' here am I 

A lowly fisher still. 
IVe drank the cup of misery 

Up to the very fill. 
And they, they in the churchyard lie, 

Up yonder on the hill. 



131 



But oh! perhaps when I shall sail 

That last cold ocean wide, 
Mine eyes shall see, though fierce the gale, 

My bonnie blue-eyed bride 
Stand on the shore in yonder Leal, 

With baby playin' at her side. 

November 26th, 1882. 



J32 



RAPTURE. 

Fair sea, bright sunshine, bird of song divine, 

I, too, may lose the tide, the Hght, the lay; 
Others may win the kisses that were mine, 
My night may be their day, 
Yet though the soul may sigh 
For precious things gone by, 
I shall have had my rapture, come what may. 

(Attributed to) W. H. Stapleton. 

November 28th, 1882. 



133 



LOVE. 

"Oh, Winter Land," he said, 

"Thy right to be I own, 

God leaves thee not alone, 

And if the fierce winds blow 

O'er thy wastes of rock and snow. 

And at thy iron gates, 

Thy ghostly iceberg waits. 

Thy homes and hearts are dear, 

God's love and man's are here. 

"Thy sorrow o'er the sacred dust, 
Is sanctified by hope and trust, 
Still, whereso'er it goes, 
Love makes its atmosphere; 
Its flowers of Paradise, 
Take root in the eternal ice. 
And bloom through polar snows." 



134 



PARADISE. 

Within each heart there lies apart 

From all its cares and sorrows, 
A paradise which knows no sighs, 

A world of happy morrows; 
A heaven of light, unknown to blight 

Of winter, bleak and dreary. 
Whose days are long and sweet with song, 

Whose hours are never weary. 

What matter though earth's pathways glow 

No more with springtime gladness ? 
What if each June has flown too soon 

And left a look of sadness? 
No real love so true will prove. 

No tones one half so tender. 
No lips so pure as those which lure 

The soul to visioned splendor. 

November 2yth, 1881. 



135 



MEMORIES. 

Do you remember, Maud, that night 
We stood together, you and I, 

And watched the mystic points of light 
That gHttered in the vaulted sky ? 

A veiling cloud drew back, a beam 
From one effulgent star above 

Enwrapped us in its glorious gleam, 
The golden glowing star of love. 

Beneath the influence of that star 
My soul within its prison burned, 

Sweet Venus pushed the gates ajar 
And then the sweets of love I learned. 

(Attributed to) Thomas M. Bowen. 

December ist, 1882. 



136 



TRUE LOVE. 

True love is like the ivy green, 

That ne'er forgetteth what hath been, 

And so till life itself be gone, 

Until the end it clingeth on. 

What though the tree where it may cling 

Shall hardly know another spring? 

What thougJi its boughs be dead and bare ? 

The twining ivy climbeth there 

And clasps it with a firmer hold. 

With stronger love than that of old, 

And lends it grace it never had 

When time was young and life was glad. 

(Attributed to) W. H. Stapleton. 

December Tst, 1882. 



137 



ST. VAI^ENTINE'S DAY. 

Though the bird flies far 
And the fair flower goes, 

The sweet of the year 
Is set in the snows. 

The wind o' the winter 
It breaks into bloom* 

And suddenly songs 

Are sung in the gloom. 

And winging hearts cross 
And whisper together, 

And a night and a day 
It is perfect weather. 



February loth, 1882. 



138 



A VALENTINE. 

O, Princess, what shall I bring 
To offer before thy throne? 

For I know of no joyous thing 
That is not already thine own. 

Youth and beauty and love, 

Desirest thou more than these? 

Lo, from the skies above 

And from far away mystical seas, 

All things radiant and rare, 
All things tender and sweet. 

Hasten, O Princess fair. 

To fall in delight at thy feet. 

So, Princess, what shall I bring. 
When low I bend at thy throne? 

"My heart for an offering," 

E'en that has been long: thine own. 



^&> 



February 14th, 1882. 



139 



THE VALENTINE. 

My valentine's a page of gold, 
Upon it by the morning light 
I trace new hopes and fancies bright, 

So sweetly is the story told. 

That old, old story, yet so new, 
A little song of love, a voice 
That bids my faltering soul rejoice, 

A promise to be ever true; 

love, sweet love, this honest heart 
Unknown to coquetry or art. 

Hath sworn fidelity to you. 

And to my trustful heart I press 
My valentine, with fond caress. 

But still as sweetly as of old. 
And now the long, long years have fled, 

1 read the treasure sheet of gold. 
What tho' my love, alas ! be dead 
And as I read from yonder skies 

An angel with a radiant crown 
Comes to my lonely chamber down 

And bids me dry my streaming eyes. 
So in the soft declining day 
I think of him who's far away. 

Whose body in the churchyard lies. 
And to my broken heart I press 
My valentine with fond caress. 

January 28th, 1882. 

140 



A NEW YEAR IDYE. 

Upon this happy New Year night, 
A roach crawls up my pot of paste, 
And begs me for a tiny taste. 

Aye, eat thy fill, for it is right 

That while the rest of earth is glad. 
And bells are ringing wild and free. 
Thou shouldst not, gentle roachling, be 

Forlorn and gaunt and weak and sad. 

This paste tonight especially 

For thee and all thy kind I fixed. 
You'll find some whisky in it mixed, 

For which you have to thank but me. 

So freely of the banquet take. 
And if you chance to find a drop 
Of liquor, prithee do not stop 

But quaff it for thy stomach's sake. 

Why dost thou stand upon thy head. 
All etiquette requirements scorning. 
And sing "You won't go home till morning" 

And "Pvit me in my litte Bed?" 



141 



Your tongue, fair roach, is very thick, 
Your e3^es are red, your cheeks are pale, 
Your underpinning seems to fail, 

You are, I wot, full as a tick. 

Envoi. 

I think I see that roach's home. 

That roach's wife, with broom in hand, 
That roach come staggering homeward and 

Then all is glum and gloom and gloam. 

January 2d, 1882. 



142 



JANUARY 1st, 1883. 

If you're waking, call me early, 

Call me early, mother dear, 
That I may be up and well prepared 

To welcome the new-born year; 
Set the alarm at nine, mother, 

And call me at nine, my dear. 
For I'm to receive this year, mother, 

I'm to receive this year. 

Here are my striped hose, mother, 

Here are my ribbons gay. 
Here are my lavender kids, mother. 

Here is my white pekay; 
Here is my princess basque, mother, 

And here is the rest of the gear, 
I'm so happy I cannot sleep, mother, 

For I'm to receive this year ! 

Have you got the jellies made, mother, 

Are all the sweetmeats fixed? 
Are the punch and the nogg prepared, mother, 

And the champagne cocktails mixed? 
I'm afraid there will be a hitch, mother. 

When the guests are gathering here, 
I tremble and cannot sleep, mother, 

For I'm to receive this year. 



143 



JANUARY ist, 1883. 

Wake me early, mother dear, 

Set the alarm for nine, 
For I'm to receive, you know, this year, 

Thanks to that San Juan mine; 
And mother dear, let the lay-out be 

Decidedly recherche; 
For once, I'm determined to be on top 

Of those Johnsons over the way. 
So wake me early and don't forget 

The rush will begin at two; 
And I'll be heartily glad, you bet. 

When the racket is fairly through! 



144 



NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS. 

'Twas but a month ago today, 

'Twixt old year and the new, 
I laid my pipe and pouch away. 

No more to smoke or chew; 
To round my resolutions fair. 

And from all vices sever, 
I vowed I nevermore would swear, 

Not even hardly ever. 

I felt so lonesome like, anon, 

While pining for a smoke 
That, brooding all my grief upon. 

An oath was almost spoke; 
An oath ! when I had just foresworn 

All words that vicious be ! 
Nay, rather than be tempted more. 

Return, O pipe, to me! 

And pondering on the habit vile 

That threatened moral ruin, 
I drifted with a bitter smile. 

Back to my pouch and chewin' ; 
So, of my resolutions, two 

Have vanished in the air. 
The third shall stick my lifetime through. 

For, me, I'll not swear! 

January 2pth, 1883. 

145 



EASTER. 

Arouse, O birds, the time is nigh 
For omelettes and for poaches, 

Lift up your anthem to the sky, 
For Easter day approaches ! 

Awake, O Shanghais, slim and tall, 
And Bantams short and squatty, 

And Cochins towering over all. 
And Games so fierce and haughty! 

Awake, O Brahma Pootrah bird, 
And rend the wintry shackles. 

And let your kittycaws be heard. 
Your crOwings and your cackles! 

Give us, O birds, a new-made lay, 
Appropriate to the minute, 

With nothing else, the shell away. 
But what there should be in it! 

Give us, O birds, so fair a lay 
No groceryman may cozen, 

A modest lay, once every day, 
At living rates per dozen. 

March i6th, 1883. 

146 



AN EASTER SERMON. 

"Fm glad that Easter Sunday's here," 

Said Mrs. Henry Gray; 
"M)^ bonnet new and other gear 

I'll wear to church today; 
A vein of glory will pervade 

My hymn of praise and prayer, 
For when my toilet is displayed, 

How Mrs. Bliss will stare! 

"I hate that horrid Mrs. Brown, 

With all her quirks and smiles. 
Of all the women in the town 

She apes the coarsest styles; 
She bought her bonnet 'way last spring 

And wears it now for new. 
And as for that old Thompson thing, 

I vow I hate her, too ! , 

"I hear Miss Jones, the cross-eyed cat! 

Has bought a new pekay. 
And terra cotta Paris hat 

To wear to church today ; 
And Helen White has got a dress 

They say is just divine, 
Come, Mr. Gray, and do you guess 

It's half as sweet as mine? 



147 



"There go those awful Billings girls, 

They paint and powder, too, 
They pad and wear cheap bangs and curls. 

They do — I know they do! 
You needn't laugh — I boldly say 

And stake my honor on it — 
I'll paralyze them all today 

With my new dress and bonnet!" 

March ipfh, 1883. 



148 



SPRING. 

The meads with green are garnished o'er, 

The birds sing in the bowers, 
And from the Broad Platte's further shore 

We scent the budding flowers ; 
Fair Cherry creek runs swift and clear, 

The merry woodchucks drum — 
O, season of the poet dear! 

The picnic days have come. 

The season of the year sublime, 

When nature tunes her voice — 
O happy vernal picnic time 

When Sunday schools rejoice; 
When little girls and boys go out 

'Neath sylvan monarchs old, 
And gaily dance and frisk about 

And catch their deaths o' cold. 

When sandwiches and buns are ripe — 

Croquet and other games. 
When stomach aches of every stripe 

Steal over youthful frames. 
When Chloe guards with watchful eyes 

Her lover — jealous maid! 
When Daphnis sits on custard pies 

And prones where kine have strayed. 

April lytk, 1882. 

149 



MAY. 

I love the May because it seems to me 
So full of secrets and of whisperings; 
Telling the heart in confidence of things, 
Yet unaccomplished and mysteriously, 
Like a fleet harbinger of victory. 
With glov^ing, undefined prefigurings, 
Reveals an opulence of spoils ; and brings 
A present joy in v^hat is yet to be. 

How like the far-off ringing of a chime, 

The soft south wind; and each succeeding day, 

Moved by this prelude of a sunnier clime. 

Sings a new song and finds a theme more gay. 

It is a gay, it is a hopeful time. 

And this is why I love the month of May. 



150 



THANKSGIVING, 1881. 

Last March my mine panned out a fraud- 

My wife eloped in May — 
A fire broke out and burned my barn 

And all the stacks of hay. 
The hoppers cleaned my garden out — - 

My cows took sick and died — 
The horses got the pink-eye bad 

And dropped on every side. 

The bank suspended all at once — 

The rust got in the rye — 
A cyclone tore the wheatfield up — 

And all the wells went dry; 
The chickens sickened with the pip, 

The hired girl ran off — 
The children one by one took down 

With croup and whooping cough. 

And yet despite this luck, I went 

Down to the grocery store 
And for a turkey gobler paid 

My last two dollars o'er. 
I thought I'd kind o' celebrate 

Thanksgiving. 'Pon my word, 
A tramp broke in the house last night 

And stole the plaguey bird. 

November 21st, 1881. 

151 



THE APPROACH OF THANKSGIVING. 

There is a dawning in the sky 
Which doth a world of fate imply, 
And on each casual passing face 
A look expectant you may trace. 
These signs the veteran turkey sees 
And with a deep and mournful sigh, 
He calls his numerous family nigh 
And murmurs, pointing to the trees, 
"Roost high, my little ones, roost high!" 

November 13th, 1882. 



152 



A GLORIOUS FOURTH. 

A Denver patriot, proud and grand, 

Leaned up against a bar — elate 
And lordlike, waved his graceful hand, 
And ordered goodly cocktails, and 
Talked of the "Day we Celebrate." 

"Oh, when we recollect," said he, 

"Old Bunker Hill and Lundy's Lane, 

We drink, our patriot dead, to thee!" 

And singing thus of liberty. 

He bids 'em "set 'em up again." 

His eyes beheld poor Warren bleed. 

While British lords supined at ease, 
And Putnam, fresh from rural mead, 
Dash down a bank on foaming steed. 
And, "one more cocktail, if you please." 

He spoke of Valley Forge and those 
Who, hatless, bootless, in the snow. 

Stood guard while old Boreas froze 

Their patriotic ears and toes, 

"Another glass? Well, here goes!" 



153 



He talked of Allen, Wayne and Lee, 
And ancient heroes by the score, 

Of Boston harbor and the tea, 

And tea reminded him that he 
Inclined to liquidate once more. 

What wonder then that, quaffing to 

The memory of those martyred dead. 
E'en as they lost their dear lives through 
Their love of land so staunch and true. 
This Denver man should lose his head! 

Before another bar today 
That Denver man will stand ; 

O Judge, be merciful, we pray. 

And let him go his rocky way 

To bless the freedom of our land ! 

July 5th, i88s- 



154 



O TEMPORA; A FOURTH OF JULY 
REFLECTION. 

Oh, would I were inspired to sing, 
In lofty, sole un-metered rhyme, 

The glory of some valorous thing 
That happened in the olden time. 

Alas, that patriotism's dead! 
Alas, that creatures of today 

Are not as man upon whose head 

Sweet patriotism's beams were shed 
An hundred years ago. 
Ah woe 

'Tis not these times that way! 

My theme's the dog, a pleasant cur 
As ever trotted down the street, 

Yellow his eyes, likewise his fur. 
As mild a dog as you could meet 

In a day's walk — but dogs today 
Are not the dogs you used to find 

Before brave Towsers had gi'en place 

To a degenerate canine race, 
An hundred years ago. 
Oh no, 

They are of the common kind. 



155 



Why, in the days of Washington, 

Where was the dog that thought to pale 

At the suggestion he should run 
A mile or two with his proud tail 

Made fast unto an oyster can? 
Why, that was simply glory then! 

But now the dog's ashamed to drag 

The can; and man forgets the flag. 
An hundred years ago. 
Not so, 

So changed are dogs and men! 

See how the dogling of today 

Writhes, shies and tumbles to and fro 
Adown the hot and dusty way. 

And hark unto his yelp of woe 
His broken hearted, plaintive cry, 

Because a pail is to him tied! 
Was it for this our fathers died 
An hundred years ago? 
No no ! 
But time hath changfed us all. 



'fe' 



July ph, 1882. 



156 



THE FIFTH OF JULY. 

Sing not of patriots who are dead, 
The yankee sires long passed away, 

Bind up his throbbing, aching head 
And sing the patriots of today! 

Nor Washington, nor Lee nor Wayne, 
E'er suffered pain as suffered they. 

Pain in the head, in stomach pain. 
These gallant patriots of today! 

Not he who fills a soldiers' grave. 
Who drove the British hordes away, 

Who life and fortune freely gave. 
Not he is patriot, we say. 

But he who celebrates the Fourth, 
As all good men at present do. 

And then endures the after clap. 
He is the patriot brave and true ! 

The aching head, the stomach sour. 

The dark brown taste, the trembling knees, 

Oh, what are Revolution gore 
And Revolution pangs to these! 

July ^th, 1882. 

157 



THE WARRIOR. 

Under the window is a man, 

Playing an organ all the day, 
Grinding as onty a cripple can, 

In a moody, vague, uncertain way. 

His coat is blue and upon his face 
Is a look of highborn, restless pride, 

There is somewhat about him of martial grace 
And an empty sleeve hangs at his side. 

"Tell me, warrior bold and true. 

In what carnage, night or day. 
Came the merciless shot to you. 

Bearing your good, right arm away?" 

Fire dies out in the patriot's eye. 

Changed my warrior's tone and mien, 

Choked by emotion he makes reply, 

"Kansas — harvest — threshing machine !" 

April 1st, 1882. 



158 



THE SURVIVOR. 

In August, Nineteen Fifty-two, 

A hero old and gray, 
Who, years before had worn the blue 

In many a gory fray. 
Received the homage of his land 

For deeds of valor done. 
For he remained of all his band, 

The last surviving one. 

Our children's children's children swept 

From hillside and from plain. 
And, crowding 'round the old man, wept 

To hear him tell again 
The stories he so loved to tell — 

Of battles lost and won — 
How armies rose and cities fell 

And great exploits were done. 

One arm was lost in Tennessee, 

Another in Missouri, 
And then a third while fighting Lee 

With patriotic fury ; 
Another still at Corinth went — 

What cares he for his arms 
While his beloved land was rent 

With war and war's alarms. 



159 



One leg in old Kentucky lay — 

A second leg lost he 
As merrily he limped away 

With Sherman to the Sea. 
What were two legs for him to lose, 

On fields that reeked with gore? 
He laughed away his fit of blues, 

And lost a dozen more. 

Of Richmond and the Wilderness 

The hero loved to tell — 
Ten thousand battles more or less. 

The counterparts of hell; 
Of dying men and women's tears. 

And graves no one shall know — 
Traditions of the dreadful years — 

The years of long ago. 

Ah ! though we now derisive smile. 

Our children's children then 
Will, wondering, hear his stories while 

They bless this best of men; 
And when his life at last is o'er 

God grant His blessings too — 
For he was one of those who wore 

The dear, the glorious blue. 

July 24th, 1883. 



160 



THE MILITIAMAN. 

He revels in scenes of blood and gore, 
Where the terrible bomb is hurled; 

He slaughters the foe and he calls for more, 
And he wears his mustache curled. 

All into the midst of the fight he flies, 
Where the smoke makes sunlight dusk; 

He loves to listen to dying cries. 
His favorite scent is musk. 

His sabre gleams like a shooting star, 

He is full of martial oaths; 
His constant talk is of blood and war. 

He wears ten-dollar clothes. 

January 22d, 1882. 



161 



THE KANSAS VETERAN. 

The old man's face was creased with care 

And drooping was his head — 
"Why have you such a languid air 

On this proud day," we said. 
"Alas, I am a Kansas man" — 

"No more," we joyous cried, 
"To Kansas and the Kansas men. 

Our doors are open wide. 

"Our hearts are widely open too, 

For Kansas in the fight, 
And Kansas men all wore the blue 

And battled for the right; 
So welcome, veteran, to our arms 

And to our hearthstones, too, 
Now tell us of the war's alarms 

And bloody times you knew. 

"And do you on your body bear 

Grim-visaged ghastly scars? 
And do you on your person wear 

The finger-prints of wars? 
Oh, tell us sir that we and ours 

May bless you brave and true. 
Who in our country's darkest hours 

Marched forth and donned the blue." 



162 



The Kansas veteran smiled a smile 

And o'er the counter bent, 
And quaffed a deep libation while 

We gazed in wonderment. 
"I come from Kansas," with a sigh 

He then went on to tell, 
"I am no soldier man, but I 

Have garden truck to sell." 

July 24th, 188 S- 



163 



Mestern IDerse* 



McBtern Der^e* 



FORMERLY OF KANSAS. 

Is it you, old pard, with your whitened hair 
An' your rugged beard laid on your breast, 

And your pale eyes sot in a deathly stare, 
That's taking your last and lonely rest 
'Mid the snow-capped Rockies? 

I knowed him, sir, when his eyes was clear. 
When his face was smooth as a smilin' girl's. 

When his limbs was as fleet as the frightened deer, 
When his head was covered with nut-brown curls, 
'Twas a long, long time ago. 

He was with Jim Lane, a han'some lad. 
And we done our likeliest — him and me — 

An' it's many a narrer chance we had 
Along the border, but what cared we. 
In them days down in Kansas ! 

167 



When the war came on, then me and Jim 
Saddled our horses and rode away, 

And fit for the Union — me and him — 
Till all unsullied out o' the fray 
We come with Kansas. 

Is it you, old pard, with your frosted hair. 

An' your crawny beard swep' down your breast, 

An' your brave eyes fixed in a ghastly stare, 
That has laid down here on the icy crest 
O' the snow-capped Rockies? 

S'posin' we hide his furrowed face 

Under that yonder moanin' pine; 
And on the stone that marks the place. 

We'll carve naught else but the simple line, 
"Formerly of Kansas." 

March loth, 1883. 



168 



THE PIONEER. 

Fill up your glass, O comrade true, 
With sparkling wine that cheers. 

And let us drink a bumper to 
The sturdy pioneers; 

The honest men, the women fair, 
Who, years and years ago. 

Had steady hearts and heads to dare 
Deeds we may never know 
Nor page in history show! 

They had their uses then, and now 
They have their uses too, 

For oh ! they live to tell us how 
In eighteen sixty-two 

The summer was the hottest time 
That ever scorched our state, 

And then, with earnestness sublime. 
They hasten to relate 
Tales vast to contemplate; 

And speak of bitter wintry woe! 

Why, mercy sakes alive! 
There fell a fifteen foot of snow 

In eighteen sixty-five ! 
Three foot of water in the Platte 

Was frozen ten foot thick, 
And, seeming not content with that. 

Each man and wife and chick 

With rheumatiz took sick! 



169 



And should we smile ? The years gone by 

With martyr lives are strewn ; 
We're gaily treading, you and I, 

The path which they have hewn, 
Hewn from the desert and the mine, 

Posterity to cheer, 
I^et's toast them in the sparkling wine, 

Drink to the mem'ries dear ! 

Drink to the pioneer ! 

January 2pth, i88^. 



170 



ATMOSPHERIC DECEPTION. 

The shades of night were falling fast 
As through the streets of Denver pass'd 
An Englishman who raised on high 
This feeble but suggestive cry, 
'^The Foothills." 

He queried of a man he met 
"How far unto the foothills yet?" 
The man looked up and deeply sighed, 
"Some thirty miles, sir," he replied, 
"To them Foothills." 

The Englishman in spirit groaned, 
"Well, I'll be blowed," he sadly moaned; 
"It must be in the atmosphere. 
It don't look more'n a mile from here 
To the Foothills." 

Next morning on the blistered ground 
The corse of that poor wretch was found, 
From Denver thirty miles away. 
And still as far again, they say, 
From the Foothills. 

August 1 2th, 1881. 

171 



A COLORADO SAND STORM. 

See the madly blowing dust, 

Oh! the dust! 
How it revels in the gust, 
How it covers with a crust 
Of tenacious, gritty must 

Ev'ry object in the street. 
It is monarch of us all 
When it rises up, we fall. 

When it comes. 

When it hums, 
Ev'ry kind of business flags, 
Ev'ry branch of business lags. 

And it gags 

As it snags 
Ev'ry class of trade afloat. 
It is death to eyes and throat. 

For it kills 

As it fills 
Ev'ry eye and ev'ry throat. 

Oh, the dust, dust, dust! 
Yet it's useless to complain, 
Intercessions are in vain, 



172 



But it's far from being just 
We should suffer so with dust, 
Since the city is not bust, 

Oh, the dust, 
It is here, it is there. 
It is flying everywhere ! 
How it permeates the air ! 

Oh, the dust! 

How it's cuss'd. 



November 6th, 1882. 



173 



THE DROUTH. 

The meads are parched, the earth is hot, 
The sun is blazing in the sky. 
The brooks that babbled once are dry, 
Dead are the flowers, or drooping sick, 
The fragrant flowers we loved to pick, 

The pansy and forget-me-not. 

The kine are panting in the glade. 
The cowboy sweats in angry mood. 
Because his flocks can find no food ; 
The lambs in helpless misery 
Ivoll on the baked and dusty lea. 

And vainly pine for drink and shade. 

And in this city, once our pride. 
We see what ne'er before was seen. 
Our trees no longer fresh and green; 
The grass is withered up and dead. 
And by the fire which burns o'erhead. 

Each irrigating ditch is dried. 

Boreas, from thy arctic cave. 

Blow up a cool, refreshing gale! 
Bring Zephyrus and Hesp'rus, too. 
Each bearing hail and rain and dew, 

The liquid element we crave. 



174 



Or else this Colorado plain, 

Once green with verdure will be turned 
Into a desert, bleached and burned ; 
This fairy portal to the hills. 
Once watered by a thousand rills. 

Will fade away through dearth of rain ! 

January loth, 1882. 



175 



WINTER IN COLORADO. 

The snow lies deep upon the ground, 
The birds sing sweetly in the trees, 

The scent of roses all around 
Is borne upon the icy breeze. 

Upon each irrigating stream, 

The skating youth indulge in play, 

While women folks, like fairies, beam 
In summer hats and white pekay. 

The plumber taps the pipe that's froze, 
And tears up ceiling, side and floor. 

While round about the ice-man goes 
And leaves his chattels at our door. 

This man with frozen hands and feet 
Is hurried off and put to bed ; 

Another, prostrate by the heat. 

Wears cabbage leaves upon his head. 

Thus speeds the winter in our state 
A batch of contradictions rude; 

And we assign our varying fate 
To this peculiar altitude. 

November jd, 1881. 

176 



DECEMBER, 1881. 

Up to the blue and cloudless skies, 
That bend from east to western peaks, 
And have not changed for weary weeks, 

I vainly turn my anxious eyes. 

And in those skies I see the glow, 
Of summer or of wakening spring, 
Their smiling countenances bring 

No faint suspicion e'en of snow. 

Upon the soft and balmy air 

I hear the birdling's joyful trill, 
And by the purling mountain rill 

The flowers are blooming sweet and fair. 

The buds are bursting on the trees. 
The blades of grass begin to start, 
And oh, I feel it in my heart, 

There isn't going to be a freeze ! 

Why is it I alone am sad 

When all the rest of earth is gay? 

Why do I weep my soul away 
While other women folks are glad? 
Alas, mine is a bitter life, 

My only hope, my only trust, 

Is in a freeze, or in a bust, 
I am an humble plumber's wife. 

December 2pth, 1881. 

177 



TO AN UNDERSHIRT. 

Thou thing of ruddy, rosy redness, hail ! 

With all thy prickly fuss to irritate. 
For thou dost laugh defiance at the gale 

That fain would shake 

And with its bluster quake 
Our corporosities well girt, 

By thy delights that militate 
'Gainst every ill, O flannel undershirt. 

We choose thee red before we do thee white, 

Not that the red is warmer or more fair, 
Not that the red is comlier to sight. 

But spite of dust 

And coal and smoke and must. 
The red defies appearances of dirt; 

So then we choose thee red and wear 
Thee next our hearts, O goodly undershirt ! 



178 



A WILD WESTERN PROTEST. 

A Boston scholar roundly swears 

By all the gods above, below, 
That we must put on modern airs 

And let our Greek and Latin go. 
Forbid, O Fate, we loud implore, 

A dispensation harsh as that; 
What ! wipe away the sweets of yore. 

The dear ^'amo, amas, amat!" 

The sweetest hour the student knows 

Is not when pouring over French 
Or twisted in Teutonic throes 

Upon a hard collegiate bench ; 
'Tis when on roots and kais and gars 

He feeds his soul and feels it glow. 
Or, when his muse transcends the stars 

With "Zoa mou, sas agapo!" 

So give our bright, ambitious boys 

An inkling of these pleasures, too, 
A little smattering of the joys 

Their dead and buried fathers knew; 
And let them sing, while glorying, that 

Their sires so sang long years ago, 
The songs, "Amo, amas, amat," 

And "Zoa mou, sas agapo." 

July 6th, 1883. 

179 



UTAH. 

Bowed was the old man's snow-white head, 
A troubled look was on his face, 

"Why come you, sir," I gently said, 
"Unto this solemn burial place?" 

"I come to weep a while for one 

Whom in her life I held most dear, 

Alas, her sands were quickly run. 
And now she lies a sleeping here." 

"Oh, tell me of your precious wife. 
For she was very dear, I know, 

It must have been a blissful life 
You led with her you treasure so?" 

"My wife is moldering in the ground. 
In yonder house she's spinning now. 

And lo ! this moment may be found 
A driving home the family cow ; 

"And see, she's standing at the stile, 
And leans from out the window wide. 

And loiters on the sward awhile. 
Her forty babies by her side." 

i8o 



**01d man, you must be mad !" I cried, 
"Or else you do but jest with me; 

How is it that your wife has died 
And yet can here and Hving be ? 

"How is it while she drives the cow 
She's hanging out her window wide, 

And loiters, as you said just now, 
With forty babies by her side?" 

The old man raised his snowy head, 
"I have a sainted wife in heaven ; 

I am a Mormon, sir, he said, 

"My sainted wife on earth are seven." 

March loth, 1882. 



181 



WUN LUNG AND GIN SUNG. 

On the gentle Wun Lung had Dame Nature bestowed 
All physical charms in great wealth, 

'Twas first out in 'Frisco she made her abode 
But she came to our town for her health. 

The genial Gin Sling kept a laundrying shop, 
The which entered Wun Lung one day, 

Beholding whom, Sling's heart went flippety-flop, 
And in turn Lung's heart went the same way. 

In the blandest of voices he said, "Be my bride 
And I'll load you with kindness and wealth," 

Wun Lung hung her head and with blushes replied, 
"Wasn't marriage she wanted but health." 

"O, pigeon toed beauty, with hair like the night 

And eyes that for brightness excel 
The glow of the stars, it would be my delight 

To make you both happy and well. 

"You shall sing while I wash ; while I iron, you sleep, 
And the doctor shall call thrice a day. 

And I as your husband and lover will keep 
Every care and vexation away." 

182 



Well, she married Gin Sling, and as to the rest 
Of our story! What else could it be 

Than she does the washing — that's easily guessed. 
While the sleeping and singing does he! 

February i8th, 1882. 



183 



THE COLORADO SPRINGS BELLE. 

In Colorado Springs did dwell 

Once on a time a dashing belle, 

Whose name was Hannah Hunniwell, 

A blooming, buxom lass was she. 

And she was sweet as sweet could be, 

So all the fellows did agree; 

But Hannah Hunniwell was vain, 

That fact, alas ! was all too plain, 

For Hannah laid uncommon stress 

Upon the vanity of dress — 

A weakness of her sex, we guess. 

She had a lovely sealskin sacque 

That often graced her comely back. 

And sealed her doom at last, alack ! 

For when the wintry winds did blow, 

Prognosticating ice and snow. 

Unto her trunk did Hannah go 

And straight she hauled the sealskin out, 

And with premonitory flout. 

She put the noisome moths to rout. 

"Now blow, ye winds," quoth Hannah ga)^, 
''So long as in my sacque I may 
Go gallivanting all the day !" 

184 



Alas, the poor, misguided child ! 

The sun appeared, the tempest wild 

Was lulled into a zephyr mild, 

Then Hannah waxed uncommon pale 

And wailed a great and grievous wail 

To see her pet ambition fail. 

Much to her family's dismay. 

She stayed at home day after day. 

And as she stayed, she pined away, 

And still the weather milder grew. 

The gentle south wind balmy blew, 

And warmed the people through and through; 

And while all other folks were glad. 

Poor Hannah Hunniwell was sad. 

Or what was sadder yet, was mad, 

And so one calm, soft eventide. 

She pressed her sealskin to her side, 

And with a hollow sob, she died ! 

The chattering gossips love to tell 
The fate of that vain foolish belle. 
Who loved her sealskin sacque too well. 



185 



A KANSAS CITY ECHO. 

I sing of beauty and the swell, 
Who loved not wisely, but too well, 

The old, old story. 
She was a farmer's belle, in truth, 
And he an operatic youth 

In tights and glory. 

Their love was not unmixed with pain, 
The lady's brother had a vein 

Of humor merry. 
He found, by chance, a billet-doux, 
And, smiling, quoth : "This youth is too 

Preliminary." 

With that he sought the trysting spot, 
The air was comfortably hot. 

Begetting dizziness. 
And just at hand a fair array 
Of clubs and other missiles lay. 

In case of business. 

But why prolong the tale of woe. 
Of how he interviewed that beau. 

In sport athletic; 
And bore upon him like a gust. 
And trailed his lithe form in the dust, 

Unsympathetic ? 



i86 



No more will this fair maid, they say, 
Pursue the tenor of her way 

In delectation; 
No hope has he to ring the belle. 
Which only sounds for him a knell 

Of separation. 

August idthj 1881. 



187 



CUPID AT MANITOU. 

I've been at the Springs for a merrisome while — 

And oh, need I tell you the rest? — 
Why my soul lights mine eyes with an eloquent smile, 

As a little bird sings in my breast ! 
Her face, like the lilies, is modest and fair, 

And her orbs with an ecstasy glow. 
And cute little bangs straggle out of her hair — 

She's a darling young belle from St. Joe. 

We met on the foothills — the usual way — 

I was hungry and footsore and weak. 
But my pangs disappeared like the night before day. 

And the hot blushes mantled my cheek. 
Ah, it's many a maiden with radiance rare, 

I've met in my walks to and fro, 
But with never a maid that presumed to compare, 

With the beauteous young belle of St. Joe. 

I am going to Leadville to print and to write, 

With a little bird's song in my breast. 
But I'll hie to the Springs every Saturday night 

And woo that sweet bird in her nest. 
'Neath the glorious stars and the sad visaged moon. 

While the zephyrs are whispering low, 
I will sit in the soughing and gloaming and spoon — 

Oh, I'm mashed on the belle of St. Joe. 

(Attributed to) C. C. Davis. 

August i6th, 1881. 

188 



THE BROWN TRAGEDY. 

Old Obadiah Goshen Brown 

Not many years ago, 
Owned half a Massachusetts town — 

Was awful rich, you know ; 
And being somewhat sick and blue. 
He thought he'd visit Manitou. 

Arrived and fairly settled there 
With all his traps and things, 

He praised the clear and bracing air, 
Likewise the Soda Springs, 

And feeling frisky, quoth "I think 

I'll to the bar and buy a drink." 

Alas when came the time to pay 
For that small drink, poor Brown 

Saw all his fortune fade away — 
His bonds, his stock, his town. 

His bank account and all the rest 

Of earthly pelf that he possessed. 

He signed a quit-claim to it all 
Then to the foothills hied — 

"I will complete my dreadful fall 
By perishing," he cried. 

With that he made a fatal pitch 

Into an irrigating ditch. 

August 2^dj 1881. 

189 



THE CACTUS. 

"Bring me, my love, at twilight hour, 
Some token of your love," she said, 
"Which shall its fragrance 'round me shed, 

A little boon, a tiny flower." 

Oh, had my sweetheart asked me more, 
I had not groaned as then I groaned, 
I had not moaned as then I moaned. 

My heartstrings had not pulled me sore. 

For, oh ! I see on every hand 

Nor roses, violets of blue. 

Nor daffodils of varied hue, 
Only a vast expanse of sand ! 

Alas, and not a flower I see 
Upon this Colorado plain, 
I sigh and sigh and sigh again, 

"My love can have no flow'r from me." 

Stay, yonder is a modest sprout, 
A cactus in the barren soil. 
She hath contrived by sturdy toil 

To spread her shrivelled roots about. 



190 



What better token of my faith, 

Could I unto my lady bear 

Than that maimed foundling sprouting there, 
That spawn of vegetation's wraith? 

My love is like a cactus plant, 

Elsewhere weak loves may bud and bloom, 

But in this wild, this sandy tomb. 
Mine be the sturdy love, God grant. 



191 



THE TWO SLEEPERS. 

I know two sleepers, one is there 

In yonder house on yonder street, 
She is my lady, fine and fair. 

And she is lost in slumber sweet; 
In dreams she dreams perhaps of me, 

This sleeper whom I love so well. 
And wonder where her love may be, 

Sweet dream ! I pri' thee do not tell ! 

The other sleeper is at rest. 

Near yonder chair upon the floor, 
White is its smooth and pulseless breast. 

It represents six bits or more. 
By whom 'twas dropped, I cannot say, 

But, lest its owner woo it back. 
Please, partner, kick it round this way. 

That I may nip it for my stack. 

May 2ist, 1883. 



192 



DEATH OF THE COW-BOY. 



How strong the cow-boy is in death, 
How strives he with the reaper grim ! 
How writhes each sturdy, supple limb, 

What life is in each dying breath ! 

His eyes have still the haughty gleam, 
The flash of mingled pride and scorn. 
They had at early yester' morn, 
When he saw us and we saw him. 

Come plunging through the swollen stream 
And drive his heifers from our corn. 



Oh, who hath done this dreadful deed, 
Hath in an evil moment slain 
This dashing hero of the plain. 

This idol of the mount and mead ? 

Oh, hath some jealous Indian chief 
Waylaid this warrior of the ranch ? 
Or hath som.e envious churl, perchance, 
Conceiving honest combat vain. 

Wrought all this tragedy and grief. 
By shooting ere he could advance ? 



193 



He died as cowboys died before; 
A bottle struck him on the head, 
He tottered, stumbled, fell and bled 

A quart or two upon the floor. 

'Twas Biddy Looney struck the blow 
That caught him just above the ear, 
He'd kissed her once and called her dear 

And then (in sorrow breathe it low) 
He'd scorned her pleading cry for beer ! 

December loth, 1881, 



194 



PIKE'S PEAK'S PHILOSOPHIC BURRO. 

I stood upon the peak amid the air — 

Below me laid the peopled, living earth ; 
Life, life and life again was everywhere, 

And everywhere was melody and mirth, 
Save on that Peak and silence brooded there. 
I vaunted there myself and half aloud 

I gloried in the victory I had won. 
Forsaking earth and earth's bewildering crowd 

I'd climbed the steeps, despite the rocks and sun 
It was a feat that really made me proud I 

And as I brooded thus my burro brayed ; 

I turned, a tear was in the creature's eye, 
And as I looked, methought the burro said, 

"What brought you up, good sir, this mountain 
high? 
Was it your legs or mine the journey made? 
There is no peak as high and steep as Fame's, 

And there be many on its very height. 
Who strut in pride and vaunt their empty claims, 

While those who toiled with sturdy, honest might 
And placed them there, have unremembered names !" 

December ist, 1881. 

195 



THE MUSTANG. 

A cow-boy o'er the prairie wide, 
Upon a mustang staunch and true, 
Thro' cacti, wet with morning dew, 

In search of roving cattle hied. 

Of all the cow-boys, fierce and wild. 
The fiercest, wildest boy was he, 
And as he skimmed the dusty lea, 

He looked like nature's petted child. 

Far out across the weary plain. 
He cast his eager, flashing eye. 
And saw a heifer, lean and spry, 

Fast heading towards a field of grain. 

Into his foaming mustang's side 

He plunged his spur, and with a moan 
The mustang bucked, despite the groan, 

"Ha, ha ! Ho, ho !" the cow-boy cried. 

Again it bucked — this time with care — 
And ere that cow-boy guessed the cause 
Or knew where in the world he was, 

He shot into the startled air ! 



196 



The probabil'ties are, we ween, 

He's still going up or coming down, 
For ne'er in country or in town 

Has that there cow-boy since been seen. 

And that was eighteen months ago. 
The mustang waits upon the plain 
For his belov'd to drop again 

And give him just another show. 

November ^th, 1881. 



197 



TO EMMA ABBOTT. 

Before thou earnest, O creature fair, 
The stars were diamonds in the sky, 
Yet now, at night, ah, tell me why 

I see no stellar diamonds there? 

Before thou camest the pretty trees 
Coquetted with the gentle kiss 
Of zephyrs ; now they seem to miss 

The dalliance of the amorous breeze. 

Before thou camest, the western sky 
Was all aflame with golden light. 
And now, I wot, perpetual night 

Hath mantled o'er the realm on high. 

Before thou camest, on yonder hill 
The lark sang sweetly to his mate ; 
And now, in vain we watch and wait 

To see his flight and hear his trill. 

The stars are jealous of thine eyes. 
The lark is jealous of thy song, 
Thy glorious hair, so fair and long. 

Hath waked the envy of the skies. 



198 



The wanton zephyrs love to kiss 
The rosy velvet of thy cheek, 
And blushes play at hide and seek 

With them, what ecstasy is this ! 

Ah, with the music of thy voice, 
The wondrous beauty of thy grace. 
Make this thy lasting living place. 

Thy country's pride, our people's choice ! 

September dth^ 1881. 



199 



EMMA ABBOTT'S BABY. 

Thy skin is of a scarlet hue, 

Thou hast a shadow of a rose, 
Thine eyes are milk and water blue, 

Ten tiny dimples are thy toes. 
Why wrinklest thou thy fuzzy face? 

Why squirmest thou, as if in pain ? 
Has some sharp pin got out of place. 

That thou dost whoop thy wild refrain? 

Thou smellest like a pan of clabber, 

And squallest like an hungry calf; 
And yet they understand thy jabber. 

Thy mother and her meaner half. 
And yet, perhaps, the time will be, 

When thou shalt fill a lofty place, 
A tenor soaring up to C, 

But just at present you are bass. 

(Attributed to) W. H. Bush. 
September 8th, 1881. 



200 



TABOR AND ABBOTT. 

The Opera House — a union grand 

Of capital and labor — 
Long will the stately structure stand, 

A monument to Tabor. 

And as to Emma, never will 
Our citizens cease lovin' her. 

While time lasts shall her name be linked 
With that of the ex-Governor. 

Because of its grand Opera House, 

Our city's much elated. 
And happy is the time that Em 

The structure dedicated. 

For many a year and many a year 
Our folks will have the habit 

Of lauding that illustrious pair 
Tabor and Emma Abbot. 

(Attributed to) R. W. Woodbury. 

September 8th, 1881. 



201 



EMMA ABBOTT'S KISS. 

To the capable critic it's clear, 
That Abbott's a daisy Lucia, 

But somehow we miss 

That world renowned kiss 
And that harvest of hugging, oh, dear! 

September 8th, 1881. 



202 



THE SMILE AND BIRD. 

Once on a time St. Peter wept — 

And Peter's tears are tears of worth — 

Because while he awearied slept, 

A smile slipped out from Heaven to earth. 

Moreover, had a heavenly bird — 
Of all the birds in realms on high 

The sweetest songster ever heard — 
Eluded Peter's dozing eye. 

"Alas, alas!" St. Peter cried 

In tones that spoke his anguish sore, 

"Where have my precious treasures hied 
That I enjoy their sweets no more?" 

Hush blessed Saint ! They're with us here — 
That heavenly smile is Abbott's face, 

And with its influences near, 

We'll feel and own its heavenly grace. 

And that dear bird, which, loved the best. 
Made angels joyous with its note. 

Hath found a home and built a nest 
In charming Abbott's beauteous throat. 

Smile on, O smile! Sing on, O bird! 

We know — we feel thy heavenly worth I 
The smile that's seen and song that's heard 

Make second heaven of our earth. 

September 8th, 1881. 

203 



EMMA ABBOTT. 

The murmur of some waterfall, 

Heard far adown some sylvan way, 
Where southern winds and flowers play 

And grasses wave and sweet birds call; 

The vague, strange voices of the night. 
That send their sombre echoes through 
The fragrant paths, adamp with dew. 

To meet the fresher morning light; 

The plaint of waves, the rustling leaves. 
The fresh, sweet music of the trees 
When the tone master of the breeze 

A newer, sweeter number weaves; 

The tender tones of grass and flowers, 
The melody of sun and sky. 
The dear old story, that won't die, 

Of summer sounds and summer hours; 

Sweet are they, yet more sweetly thrills 
Thy clear, strong notes, that hold them all, 
The murmur of the waterfall, 

The sea, the flowers, the birds, the hills. 

September nth, 1881. 

204 



JOSEPH WILSON. 

Joseph Wilson — half past one — 
Hanky-panky — lots of fun. 

"Cash my chips — got to go — 
Baby may be sick, you know." 

Boys all make a dreadful kick, 
Want to have the General stick. 

All in vain — adieux are said — 
Quits about six bits ahead. 

St. James Hotel — half past two — 
General in an awful stew. 

Found the baby wide awake 
With an awful stomach ache. 

With the baby in his arms. 
Filled with harrowing alarms, 

Sweating, too, at every pore, 
Joseph Wilson walks the floor. 

Thinks of Hanky-panky then. 
Wishes he were back again. 

January 2 2d, 188^. 

205 



RETURN OF THE EDITORS. 

How changed they are in form and face 
Since last we saw them take the train 

Bound for a distant naughty place 
Beyond the river, hill and plain. 

Why, then they were as fresh and gay 
As lambkins frisking on the lea, 

But as we welcome them to-day 

We wonder how such change can be. 

Their eyes are sunken, bleared and red. 
Their cheeks are ghastly, pale as death, 

Their lips are bloodless as the dead, 
A dark brown odor is their breath. 

They totter for they cannot walk, 
They grimace, for they cannot smile, 

They sputter (for they cannot talk) 
Like dreary mental wrecks the while. 

Was it for this we sent our pride. 
Our brilliant Colorado Press, 

Down to the lake's tumultuous side 
For sucker waters to caress ? 



206 



We gave them men, and lo! we find 
They send us back a driveling crew, 

Sans all they had of meat and mind. 
And oh ! what's worse, sans money, too. 



207 



A MEXICAN BALLAD. 

There was a Greaser bold and staid, 
Don Gomez del Gomazza, 

Who loved a gentle Greaser maid, 
The Donna Frontpiazza. 

Don Gomez rode a mustang- proud, 
And wore a bloody slasher, 

Of all the gallus Greaser crowd, 
He was the giddiest masher. 

Don Gomez once was tempted sore, 
Despite of law and order. 

To glut his greedy thirst for gore 
And cross the Texas border. 

"So fare you well, wee lady fair, 
The pretty little Donna;" 

In vain she tore her raven hair. 
Her Gomez was a goner. 

Then hied he to the Rio Grande 
With Yankee hordes to battle ; 

He crossed into the promised land 
And went to stealing cattle. 



208 



And then with more than royal pluck, 
He did his pleasing duty, 

And, meeting with uncommon luck. 
He started home with booty. 

But oh! the Yankees fierce and strong, 
While marching out to battle 

Beheld Don Gomez come along 
Adriving them there cattle. 

They gathered in the festive steers, 
And snagged the gallus Greaser, 

And with a round of hoots and jeers 
They hanged him to a tree, sir. 

Loud wailed the Greaser maiden fair, • 

The Donna Frontpiazza, 
Once more she tore her maiden hair 

For Gomez del Gomazza. 

February 12th, 1882. 



209 



A SPANISH FANDANGO. 

Around the sawdust ring there rode 

A comely circus rider, 
Alfonso's cheeks with pleasure glowed 

Whenever he espied her. 

In sooth he owned he was no churl 
And couldn't see the harm in 

Tomfooling with this pretty girl — 
The Senorita Carmen. 

"The queen I fear is up to snuff — 

I pri' thee don't defy 'er," 
Advised a certain courtier gruff — 

Don Jesus H. Maria. 

Alas the king was gone too far 
For sober second thinking — 

He tipped the girl a tra-la-la 
With multifarious winking. 

Then did the queen, Alfonso's bride. 
Wax straightway hot as fire, 

And call the courtier to her side — 
Don Jesus H. Maria. 



2IO 



"Oh, take me from this dreadful place," 

The lady 'gan to bellow, 
"I'll look no more upon his face — 

The horrid, nasty fellow!" 

"But stay, woman, the king hath eyes, 

And cannot help admire," 
In palliation then replies 

Don Jesus H. Maria. 

But no, she was of stubborn mind, 
So scorning "ifs" and "maybes". 

And leaving king and court behind. 
She sloped with both her babies. 

Then made the court a vast ado — 
Loud wailed the royal sire — 

And long repined the courtier, too, 
Don Jesus H. Maria. 

July loth 1 88^. 



211 



THE DENVER MARINER. 

I am a jolly Denver tar, 

Upon the Platte I sail — 
I sniff the breakers from afar 

And court the screeching gale. 
I climb the mizzenmast by night 

And heave the bobsail down — 
Beyond I see the harbor light, 

Hard by my native town. 

The cactus clings unto my hair, 

As in the briny gloom 
I climb the narrow gangway stair 

To furl the foretop boom. 
The hawsers creak and anchors groan, 

The rainclouds deck the sky, 
With many a shrillsome shriek and moan 

The sea gulls flutter by. 

My sweetheart is a fisher maid. 

On yonder shore she stands. 
With hopes my ship is not delayed, 

She lingers on the sands. 
With my brave bark upon the sea 

And her whom I behold. 
Where is the man who would not be 

A Denver sailor bold. 

August 2/th, 1882. 

212 



THE DENVER LIFE BOAT. 



The good ship ''Buttered Sandwich" sailed, 

Adown the briny bay ; 
The summer sky above was veiled, 

With smiles and cloudlets gay, 
While underneath the azure sea 

In solemn grandeur rolled. 
As on her course right merrily, 

The ''Buttered Sandwich" bowled. 



But scarce a league away had sailed, 

When Captain Cornbeef came, 
And stood upon the deck and hailed 

The gallant mate by name, 
"Behold," he muttered, "yonder cloud. 

That broods o'er Boulder's shore. 
Mayhap it is our winding shroud. 

Leastwise, it grieves me sore." 



213 



The maintop splintered like a stick, 

While o'er the waves afar, 
Were mingled fast and scattered thick, 

Full many a beam and spar. 

Oh 'twas a dreadful, dreadful night! 

Upon the slimy deck 
The passengers in demon fright. 

Bemoaned the awful wreck. 
The men rushed here, the women there. 

The captain and the crew 
Crouched by the bulwarks in despair. 

Of what to say or do. 

When lo! just as the ship careened 

As if about to sink. 
All o'er the rail a sailor leaned, 

And wildly cried, "I think 
I see a lifeboat come this way, 

Manned by a sturdy boy," 
Then hope succeeded dire dismay, 

And fear gave way to joy. 

Aye, in his honest little yawl, 

A youth pulled out from shore. 
Unto the wreck and took them all, 

Three hundred souls or more. 
Back to the beach, where safe on land, 

The passengers and crew. 
Took the small hero by the hand 

And told him "Good for you !" 



214 



No sooner had these words he said, 

Than did the tempest burst. 
Upon the good ship's fated head, 

And each man knew the worst. 
Some poets sing of heroes who 

Toil in the eastern main. 
To bring wrecked passengers and crew 

Safe back to land again. 
But Colorado poets are 

To all such baubles stoic, 
For here the seas are wilder far 

And heroes more heroic. 

June 5th, 1882. 



215 



MORNING. 

The sun cometh up in the Orient sky, 

Dispensing his warmth over prairie and glade, 
His beams Hghtly dance on the cot where I lie 

And kiss my soft hand on the coverlet laid, 
Yet I doze and I dream, and I dream and I doze. 
And the flies gamble aimlessly over my nose. 

The lark soars aloft from his nest in the tree, 
And sings a fair song to his mate on the hill. 

His music comes in through the lattice to me, 
And my soul, all responsive, amens to his trill. 

Yet I doze and I dream, and I dream and I doze. 

And the flies make a feast on my ten tiny toes. 

The chambermaid armed with her dustpan and 
broom 
And wearing an eye that is pregnant with gore. 
Expresses a yearning to make up my room, 
And plays a sonata on key-hole and door. 
Vain the sun's winsome smiles and the lark's soft 

appealing, 
The flies make their flight to their lairs on the ceiHng. 

August loth, 1881. 

216 



MAUD MULLER. 

Miss Muller, so the gossips say, 
Flirted in quite a shameless way ; 

But Maud, with a laugh, pronounced it fudge, 
Yet we caught her wink at the ratty Judge. 

And the Judge, but we mention this sub rose, 
Blushed up to the roots of his bulbous nose. 

Still, he craned his neck and in passing by, 
Gave a sinister wink with his dexter eye. 

Quoth Maud to herself, as on she passed, 
"I have his royal nibs in tow at last; 

"My mother shall wear a sealskin sacque. 
My pa swing out in his broadcloth black; 

"My brother shall sip his whisky skins. 
And my sister revel in gay breastpins !" 

Quoth the Judge as he sauntered listless on, 
"She's a rattling gyirl; you bet Fm gone; 

217 



"No doubt my last wife's ma will kick, 
And my heirs cut up the very Nick; 

"And tho' Fve known her a short, short spell, 
You bet I'll have her in. spite of — " well 

No matter his word, 'twas short and stout. 
And the name of a place that's now played out 

According to Beecher, Alack! for all. 

The maid and the Judge ne'er wedded at all; 

For he passed in his checks from too much gin, 
And the maid grew long and lank and thin. 

And eke, as her chances glimmered away 
She ceased to flirt and began to pray. 

God pity the maid and pity the Judge, 

And these days of twaddle and bosh and fudge ; 

For of all sad words from a heart bereft, 
The saddest are these, "You bet I'm left.'* 



218 



Iparobies, Etc 



Ipato&ie0, jetc^ 



THE COVENTRY LEGEND. 

There was a wife in Coventry 
Whose name was Mrs. Brown, 

Her husband was a hightoned bird, 
The Mayor of the town. 

He did misuse the people so, 

It raised an awful storm, 
Till Mrs. Brown declared she would 

Inaugurate reform. 

The old gent said he'd yield him to 
The prayers of Mrs. Brown, 

If she would ride upon a mule 
All naked through the town. 

She quick did let the people know. 
The promise of old Brown, 

And they unto their houses hied, 
While she rode through the town. 



221 



But one old rooster, bald and grey, 

Upon his knees went down, 
And peeped out through the keyhole at 

The disrobed Mrs. Brown. 

Straightway his eyes fell out, and he 

Forever more was blind, 
And ever after lived a life 

Detested by mankind. 

But always to his dying day. 

That ornery rooster bald. 
The sight of glowing Mrs. Brown 

With unfeigned bliss recalled. 



222 



REALITY TOO UTTERLY-QUITE. 

Ah, bring me the sunflower and Hly, 
Let me live in the glorious sight; 

Though Philistines say it is silly, 
It is really too utterly-quite. 

Let me twine, let each member contorted 
Show visions aesthetic and bright; 

What is art if we are not distorted 
And really too utterly-quite? 

Let the dull-faced green be my raiment, 
Relieved by no touches of light. 

We'll talk not of tailor's repayment, 
For we're really too utterly-quiet! 

If aesthetic perfection you long for. 
And wish for a bask in the sight, 

In the Park we go in rather strong for 
We're really too utterly-quiet! 

"Quite too too !" you hear the words muttered. 
Ah yes, the thing here is quite right, 

Man and woman are thoroughly "uttered" 
And are really too utterly-quite! 

(Attributed to) Col. John Arkins. 

August 28th, 1881. 

223 



WE ARE SEVEN. 

I met a doctor rolling up 

His wild and fireful eyes, 
His lofty brow was clouded o'er 

With an impression wise; 
Quoth I, "Pray tell me, if you please. 

Why roll your eyes to heaven?" 
"Alas," he answered with a sigh, 

"It is because we're seven!" 

There's Bliss and Barnes and Hamilton, 

And Agnew, which makes four, 
And Woodward, Baxter and myself. 

Thank God, there ain't no more! 
We've fooled around for forty days. 

And yet, so help me heaven. 
We haven't done a bit more good 

Than if we were not seven !" 

One says, "It is," another, " 'Taint," 

While I claim it's pyaemia. 
And as we dose and fool around. 

The outlook's growing dreamier ; 
And as the nation's pray'rs go up 

With one accord, to heaven. 
Each doctor has a different scheme. 

For we, good sir, are seven. 

August ipth, 1881. 

224 



IN RE SPRING. 

Whereas, on sundry boughs and sprays, 
Now divers birds are heard to sing. 

And sundry flowers their heads upraise, 
Hail to the coming on of Spring ! 

The songs of the said birds arouse 
The memory of our youthful hours, 

As young and green as those said boughs. 
As fresh and fair as those said flowers. 

The birds aforesaid, happy pairs. 

Love 'midst the aforesaid boughs enshrine, 

In household nests, themselves, their heirs, 
Administrators and assigns. 

O, busiest term of Cupid's Court ! 

When tender plaintiffs actions bring; 
Season of frolic and of sport. 

Hail! as aforesaid, coming spring. 

(Attributed to) Judge G. G. Symes. 
April 2yth, 1882. 



225 



I CANNOT SING THE OLD SONGS. 

I cannot sing the old songs 

I sang long years ago, 
And yet I cannot say I'm sad 

That time hath changed us so, 
For when I used to sing those songs. 

My Papa blankety blanked, 
And Mama took me on her knee 

And I, alas! was spanked. 

November 2pth, 1882. 



226 



THE SAME DEAR HAND. 

The bells ring out a happy sound, 

The earth is mantled o'er with white, 
It is the merry Christmas night. 

And love, and mirth, and joy abound, 

And here sit you and here sit I — 
I should be happiest in the land. 
For oh ! I hold the same dear hand 

I've held for many a year gone by. 

It is not withered up with care — 
It is as fresh and fair to see — 
As sweet to hold and dear to me 

As when with chimes upon the air, 

On Christmas nights of years ago 
I held the same dear little thing. 
And felt its soft caresses bring 

The flushes to my throbbing brow. 

Ah, we were born to never part — 
This little hand I hold to-night. 
And I — so with strong delight 

I press it to my beating heart. 

And in the midnight solemn hush, 
I bless the little hand I hold — 
In broken whispers be it told — 

It is the old time bob tail flush. 

December 2^th, 1881. 

227 



WINTER JOYS. 

A man stood on the bathroom floor, 
While raged the storm without, 

One hand was on the water valve, 
The other on the spout. 

He fiercely tried to turn the plug, 
But all in vain he tried, 

"I see it all, I am betrayed, 
The water's froze," he cried. 

Down to the kitchen then he rushed. 
And in the basement dove. 

Long strived he for to turn the plugs, 
But all in vain he strove. 

"The hydrant may be running yet," 
He cried in hopeful tone, 

Alas, the hydrant too, was froze, 
As stiff as any stone. 

There came a burst, the water pipes 
And plugs, oh, where were they? 

Ask of the soulless plumber man 
Who called around next day. 

November ist, 1882. 

228 



LOST CHORDS. 

One autumn eve, when soft the breeze 
Came sweeping through the lattice wide, 
I sat me down at organ side 

And poured my soul upon the keys. 

It was, perhaps by heaven's design, 
That from my half unconscious touch. 
There swept a passing chord of such 

Sweet harmony, it seemed divine. 

In one soft tone it seemed to say 
The sweetest words I ever heard. 
Then like a truant forest bird. 

It soared from me to heaven away. 

Last eve, I sat at window whence 

I sought the spot where erst had stood 
A cord — a cord of hick'ry wood. 

Piled up against the back yard fence. 

Four dollars cost me it that day. 

Four dollars earned by sweat of brow, 
Where was the cord of hick'ry now? 

The thieves had gobbled it away ! 



229 



Ah ! who can ever count the cost, 

Of treasures which were once our own, 
Yet now, hke childhood dreams are flown, 

Those cords that are forever lost. 

June 8th, 1882. 



230 



ARABI BEY. 

I am flying, Egypt, flying. 

And it's likely I shall fly 
Till I can't fly any farther, 

For I do not care to die. 
I'm so stifled by the desert 

Sand my lungs can hardly wheeze, 
And I'm feeling mighty shaky 

In my stomach and my knees ; 
Not a bite of camel's sirloin. 

Nor a drop of camel's whey, 
Not an orange or banana 

Has passed my lips to-day. 
For I'm flying, Egypt, flying. 

And my present purpose is 
To keep on flying till I know 

I am safely out of this. 

From Alexandria's marble halls 
To Bing Whang's cots of clay 

From Snicker Eli's sandy plains 
To Cairo's tufted walls, 

From Thump-el-Hi ttem's lordly site 
To Sneeza's royal halls 



231 



And still the bloody Britisher 

Comes prancing up behind, 
With a threat to tear my inwards out 

And strew them to the wind! 
Do you wonder, Egypt, wonder, 

With my army round. me dying, 
That I'm flying, Egypt, flying 

And propose to keep on flying? 

September 13th, 1882. 



232 



ODE TO THE PASSIONS. 

When Music, heavenly maid, was young, 
Before the gods, 'tis said she sung. 
And instruments of every kind 
She brought to please the godlike mind. 

And first the Fiddles, great and small, 
With tightened strings and resined bows, 
Surprised and charmed the Olympians all. 
With solemn, sad adagios. 

Then rushed anon with throbbing tones 
The train of tremulous Trombones, 
Now swelling like a tropic gale, 
Now lulled into a whiffling wail. 
The gods all wept, the gods all smiled. 
By starts were soft, by fits were wild. 

With quiet mien and modest grace. 
The Hurdygurdy came apace, 

And groaned a grind. 
So sweet and tremulous of kind. 
Fair Cytheraea hid her face. 
And as the echoes filled her ears, 
She smiled serenely through her tears. 

And went it blind. 



233 



Next came the Cymbals, full of fire, 
And, with a fierce and brazen ire. 

They smote a smast! 
The frightened gods surged to and fro, 
Dumbfounded by the blaring blow. 

And all aghast, 
Back they recoiled — the demons passed. 

But thou, O Flute, with murmurings low. 
Call' St back the tears into their eyes, 
And Juno, mute with glad surprise, 
Binds fragrant fillets round her brow, 
While Father Jove — no critic he — 
Exclaims, in honest, burly, glee, 

"Waal, waal, I swow!" 
Thy tones are like the waterfall, 
Or nightingales' seductive call. 

Thou art a warbler fair ! 
And Bacchus waves his golden hair 
With pleasure when thy strain begins, 
And, rising on the ravished air, 

He shakes 
Ten thousand odors from his whisky skins. 

November 6th, 1882. 



234 



ODE TO MAECENAS. 

Maecenas, thou of royal line, 
Friend, comrade, patron, too, of mine, 
Some men there be whom horrid wars 
And blood and gore and ghastly scars 
And horrors of the naval fight 
Or civil slaughterings delight; 
And some upon the changing seas 
Before the gentle, favoring breeze. 
Delight in merchant ships to sail. 
Nor dread the calm nor fear the gale 
But bearing wealth across the main. 
Return with riches home again; 
And others, those of plastic mold, 
Exchange their principles for gold. 
The wily politician taught 
In lying arts, with record fraught 
With rank corruption, thieving lust. 
Who's ne'er content with honest crust, 
But prone to lie and prone to cheat. 
He fawns about his prince's feet 
Till some fat office is at hand. 
And then he cheats and robs the land. 
Let these disport them as they may. 



235 



But I, throughout the livelong day, 

Nurture the spark of heavenly fire, 

Invoke the muse and strike the liar; 

Skin up and down the winding street. 

Pump items out of those I meet, 

Record the murders, runaways. 

The fights, the thefts ; and every phase 

Of life in country or in town 

I jot upon my tablets down; 

Three flights of stairs, three times a day 

I upward wend my weary way ; 

From early morn till dewy night 

I write and toil and toil and write. 

And yet Maecenas I would choose 

To thus pay worship to the muse. 

Let others glory in the sea, 

Fd strike my head against the stars, 
No forum, tented field for me, 

Fd run my face before the bars! 



236 



THE FATE OF TOMATO KAHN. 

Old Ragbag Bey, a venerable man, 

Arose one morning and to his servant said, 
"Send hither, slave, my son. Tomato Khan, 

If, by the Prophet's beard, he's out of bed." 
Tomato Khan responded in all haste. 

And, kneeling on the earth before his sire. 
Kissed thrice his feet, and clinging to his waist, 

"Why hast thou called?" respectful did inquire. 

"Mush Allah !" cried the old man in a breath, 

Our country is in dire complaint, I see. 
On every hand is desolation, death, 

And she demands a sacrifice of me. 
From Am el Telba unto Goghar's wall, 

From Batra's palms to Ondig's sandy plain, 
I hear the roll of drum, the trumpet's call, 

The clash of arms and war's intense refrain. 

Bind on this scimeter, my son, and go 

This day to Goghar on thy fiery, dauntless steed. 
Join thou the army of the Faithful, show 

Thy zest for Allah in thy country's hour of need ! 
Tomato Khan bound on old Ragbag's sword. 

His love, the fair Amirie, begged him stay. 
In vain the maiden wept, in vain implored. 

Tomato Khan strode on his vengeful way. 

237 



He did not die, as Ragbag hoped he might, 

Nor as Amirie thought a warrior should, 
He did not perish on the field of fight, 

No Christian hands are reeking with his blood. 
Kicked by a mule, he fell at Sneez-el-Snuff, 

A cheap, Arabian mule, a vulgar beast. 
He faintly murmured, "Allah ! this is rough !'' 

And then the throbbings of his sick heart ceased. 

So, for his country died Tomato Khan, 

A youth equipped for great, chivalric scenes. 
Dead by a mule, a martyred, glorious man, 

A patriot, since the end doth glorify the means. 
A mausoleum hath old Ragbag built, 

x\s tribute to Tomato Khan's brave deeds. 
At morn, at night his bitter tears are spilt. 

The fair Amirie wears a widow's weeds. 

June soth, 1882. 



238 



THE JAFFA AND JERUSALEM R. R. 

A little double iron track, 

A station here, a station there, 
A locomotive tender tank, 

A coach with patent swinging chair; 
A postal car and baggage too, 

A platform of the Miller make. 
With buffer, duffer, chain and spike. 

And nobby automatic brake. 
Such is the pride of Orient hordes. 

And Syria's brightest modern gem, 
The railroad train that snails along 

'Twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem. 

Beware, O sacred Mooley cow, 

The engine when it rings its bell ! 
Beware, O camel, when you hear 

The whistle's sharp and warning swell! 
And native of the holy land. 

Unused to modern travel's snare. 
And soothed by guileful taffy talk. 

The awful peanut boy beware ! 
Else, trusting to his words and wares. 

Thou mayst have reason to condemn 
The style of trade that's fashionable 

'Twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem. 



239 



And when, oh when the bonds fall due, 

How vexed and wroth will wax the state, 
From Nebo's Mount to Nazareth, 

The cry will sound, "Repudiate." 
From Hebron to Tiberias, 

From Jordan's banks unto the sea. 
Will swell the chorus, loud and long, 

Against that " monopoly," 

The horny handed shepherd swain. 

Oppressed by bonded stratagem. 
Will curse that corporation line, 

'Twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem ! 

June 2ist, 1882. 



240 



JAFFA AND JERUSALEM R. R. TROUBLES. 

Ben-Ali-Sneezer, late one afternoon, 

Met Sheik Back-Gammon on old Horeb's mount, 

And thus he in the language of the East, 

His multifarious hardships did recount : 

"O Sheik, I bow me in the dust and mourn. 

For lo! whilst browsing on the fertile plain, 

Two of my choicest heifers — fair and fat — 

Were caught in limbo and were duly slain 

By that infernal pest of recent birth. 

The half-past eight accommodation train." 

Then quoth the Sheik : "One of my white lambs. 
Which I did purpose soon to drive to town. 
While frisking o'er the distant flowery lea, 
Was by that selfsame fatal train run down. 
Now, O Ben Ali! by the prophet's beard. 
What are we ruined shepherd folk to do? 
Suppose we take our troubles into court. 
You swear for me and I will swear for you; 
And so, by mutual oaths, it's possible 
We may most hap'ly pull each other through." 

241 



Ben-Ali-Sneezer some months after met 
The Sheik Back-Gammon, and inclined to sport, 
The two sat down upon a cedar stump 
To talk of their experience in court. 
Ben-Ali quoth, "Them cows was thin as rails, 
Now that they're gone, it's mighty glad I am!" 
Back-Gammon said, "Now that the judgment's paid, 
I don't mind telling you the slaughtered lamb. 
So far from being what you swore in court. 
Was, by the great horned spoon, not worth a ." 



242 



A PASTORAL. 

Virgil. 

How sweet to sit at noontide's hour, 

Beneath the lilac tree, 
And watch the slowly budding flower 

And sing, O Spring, of thee. 
Trot out, O Tityrus, my flute, 

Hand o'er my tuneful lyre, 
Unhand the throttle of my flute. 

Lead out the shepherd choir. 
And let the ewes and lambkins stand 
In dumb surprise on every hand. 
While all the hills and valleys ring. 
With our apostrophe to Spring. 

Tityrus. 

Wilt thou, O Virgil, tip us a stave 
In the plaintive Ionic, or in the lively 
Manner of the swift-footed iambic? 

Virgil. 

On a barren rock with thee, O Tityrus, 
Born into the world, else wouldst thou know 
That neither does it please me to sing praises 
Nor invoke in the gentle Alcaic nor the 
Choriambic heptameter catalectic. 



243 



Tityrus. 

Sing then, I pray, in the dialectic trimeter. 
Or the jo3^ous iambic dimeter, the staid 
Pherecractic or the suicidal Sapphic. 

Virgil. 

Youth be shut as to your prattling mouth. 
My lyric is not attuned to such as 
Dactylic, tetrameter a posteriore, 
Adonic, iambic, dimeter hypermeter, 
Acephalous Choriambic tetrameter, 
Glyconic, Ionic a minore minor, 
Alcaic, Dactylico iambic or 
Archilochian heptameter. 

Tityrus. 

In what manner of flowing verslets 
Will thou, the poet, breathe the song? 

Virgil. 

In the sardonic, sulphuric gasmeter, 

In the smooth carbolic Celtic diameter, 

The chronic, laconic cataleptic. 

The muriatic acidic or the mellifluous 

Diabolic paregoric — but look! 

The shadows on the hills grow larger and 

The sun fades in the horizon, O Pueri 

Sat prata rivos biberunt, vale. 

March 2/th, 1882. 



244 



A PASTORAL. 

O, Tityrus, as you sit beneath 

The shade of yonder budding bay, 

And on the wierd, profound trombone, 
Pip' St thou thy sweet bucoHc lay. 
Behold the Berkshire lambs at play ; 

Behold the Southdown cattle feed, 
And gaze upon the browsing swine. 

And calmly view the Durham steed 
Cavorting 'mongst the maiden kine. 
Ah, would that such a lot were mine ! 

No cares, no sorrows, ills nor woes 
Consume thy soul as through the day 

Thou pip' St upon thy mild trombone 
The shepherd's sweet ecstatic lay. 
And watch the grazing herds at play. 

Ah, would, dear Tityrus, that I, 
A poet, not a shepherd born. 

Could rest supine beneath the shade 
And pipe upon the shepherd's horn. 
And keep the cattle from the corn. 

February isth, 1882. 

2AS 



POLITICAL RHYMES. 

Some Bosses were playing with a mule, 

One cold November day, 
The mule's still there, with upraised leg. 

The Bosses, where are they? 



Smash up and Clatter ! 

Great guns how they scatter! 

The tail wags the dog no more ! 

The people have reason to like the sport 

Though many a Boss' heart's sore. 

November 15th, 1882. 



The statesman introducing bills 

Is not the creature to adore, 
For they are dreary, senseless ills, 

And he a very stupid bore; 
But he is sensible and wise, 

(As all the poor reporters learn) 
Who rises in his place and cries, 

" 'Ster Speaker, move you we adjourn!" 

January i8th, 188^- 

246 



POUTICAL RHYMES. 

Sing a song of sick men 

And bosoms full of pain, 
But it is a nasty thing 

To be caught in the rain. 
If one can't swim and it's a Flood 

Every state a loss! 
Isn't this a pretty dish 

To set before a Boss ! 



Sing a song of caucus, 

Senatorial pie; 
Six or seven candidates 

And none of them are high ; 
While the caucus wrangles 

O'er the precious prize, 
Along comes a dark horse 

And nips it 'fore their eyes ! 

January 4th, 188^. 



247 



RANDOM VERSE. 

Now what in the world shall we dioux 
With the bloody and murderous Sioux 

Who sometime ago 

Took his arrow and bow 
And raised such a hellabelioux ? 



A maiden once ate a cucumber 

And then she lay down for. to slumber; 

The next thing she knew 

Up to heaven she flew, 
Her casket was made of new lumber. 



A darling young fellow named Day 
Prints the Solid Muldoon, at Ouray; 

When folks pay their back dues, 

He's as mild as you choose, 
When they don't, there's the devil to pay. 

August i6th, 1881. 



248 



RANDOM VERSE. 

A certain young lady at Golden, 
Once sought her best beau to embolden, 
By observing, "Don't you 
Think one chair's 'nuff f'r two?" 
And now when he calls, she is holden. 



'Tis strange how new newspapers honor 
The creature thatt's called prima donna; 

They say not a thing 

Of how she can sing. 
But talk of the clothes she has on her. 



The beautiful belle of Del Norte, 
Is reckoned disdainful and horty, 
Because during the day 
She says, "Boys keep away," 
But she yums in the gloaming like forty ! 

August 24th, 1881. 



249 



RANDOM VERSE. 

A beautiful young man at Saguache, 
Once courted the charming Miss Sauche, 

But when she was wed 

To another, he said, 
"My life is a horrible bauche." 

August 24th, 188 1. 



In Leadville a certain girl's bonnet 
Has four yards of ostrich plumes on it, 
While her sister, poor thing, 
Wears a red rooster wing. 
And that is the cause of this sonnet. 

August 25th, 1881. 



A dashing young cowboy named Gus 
Got involved in a serious muss. 

With a party named Berringer, 
And drawing his derringer 
He tapped him for laudable pus. 

November 13th, 1883. 

250 



THE PUNSTER GOES BUGGY RIDING. 

"Suppose," he said, in accent soft, 

''A fellow just like me 
Should axle little girl to wed, 

What would the answer be?" 

The maiden drops her liquid eyes, 
Her smiles with blushes mingle, 

"Why seek the bridle halter when 
You may love on, sur, cingle?" 

And then he spoke, "Oh, be my bride, 

I ask you once again; 
You are the empress of my heart, 

And there shall ever rein! 

"I'll never tire of kindly deeds 

To win your gentle heart, 
And saddle be the shaft that rends 

Our happy lives apart." 

Upon her cheeks the maiden felt 
The mantling blushes glow. 

She took him for her faithful hub, 
To share his wheel or whoa! 

January 15th, 1882. 

251 



AN ORTHOGRAPHICAL FANCY. 

With tragic air, the love lorn heir 
Once chased the chaste Louise; 

She quickly guessed her guest was there 
To please her with his pleas. 

Now at her side he kneeling sighed, 

His sighs of woeful size, 
"Oh hear me here, for lo! most low 

I rise before your eyes. 

"This soul is sole thine own, Louise, 
'Twill never wean, I ween. 

The love that I, aye e'er shall feel. 
Though mean may be its mein." 

"You know I cannot tell you no," 
The maid made answer true, 

"I love you aught, as sure I ought, 
To you 'tis due I do !" 

"Since you are won, O fairest one! 

The marriage rite is right, 
The chapel aisle I'll lead you up 

This night!" exclaimed the knight. 

January 20th, 1882. 

252 



A NAUTICAL LOVER. 

A boy named Mann once fell in love 
With pretty Bella Taylor, 

And having found his stern to speak 
He boldly did a sailor, 

"Oh let me honey-bee your bow 
I anchor for your favor, 

Nay, 'twould be barber-ons to spurn 
So fond a little shaver/' 

Bell gave a little aft to hear 
The ringing words he tolled, 

And then she gave a little keel 
And he was forced to hold. 

"Your words are sound I plainly sea, 
And I'd shoal little sense, 

If I did not in kindly mood 
Return your love in tense." 

November 4th, 1882. 



253 



VA. AND GEO. 

Young Miss Va. Smith reed. 

Attention to a marked deg. 
From a young gent, named Geo. 

As by these vs. you shall see. 

He sought her Co. one kt., 
Determined to no longer wt., 

"Behold I wp., at yr. feet, 

This inst., let me know my fate." 

Va. hung her pretty head, 

"If Hon. yr. purpose be, 
And if you'll be obdt.. 

There's no obj. I can see. 

"But 1st you must consult with pa," 
She softly lisped, her blushes through, 
I've Sr. Gov.," he cried, 
"& i. e. why I came to you." 

He took that gal. to his lap, 

A M. times or more he kiss'd her. 

The brave deserve the fair; if he 

Had feared to woo, he'd sure have Mr. 

October ^ist, 1882. 

254 



«T» 



THE POET LOVERS. 

{Strophe.) 

The flame of love Burns in his heart, 

O maiden Young and Gay; 
And now that he is Scott at last, 

Should you keep Pope away? 

If there Cling any Prior claim, 
Hume may most freely speak, 

Aha, the rosy blushes fly 

Swift to your dimpled Cheke. 

Say, Shelley go away from here 

Without a word from thee? 
Speak not at Talbot give some sign. 

However Smollett be. 

{Ante Strophe.) 

My spirit, erst so Sterne, will yield. 

Thou seest it in mine eye, 
Steele up your nerves and you shall be. 

Most happy Byron by. 

255 



"No Moore, my heart would fain relent!" 

The blushing maiden cried; 
He Locke-d her in his arms and pressed 

Her to his Akenside. 

(Apostrophe.) 

All Hale, we cry, unto the bride. 

The bridegroom, brave and Bright; 

And may their lives be Fuller joy 
For they will wed this Knight. 

November sd, 1882. 



(the end.) 



^<. 



LB D '19 



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Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

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